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DOBELL COLLECTION 



POEMS, 



W. T. MONCR1EFF. 



* Lasso, a tul che non m' ascolta, narro.' 

Petrarch. 



$rintrti, 

(FOR PRIVATE DISTRIBUTION ONLY.) 
AT THE AUTHOR'S PRIVATE PRES 
SAVILLE HOUSE, LAMBETH. 



MDCCCXXIV 






205449 
5 13 



PREFACE. 

I commenced printing this volume to please 
one who, alas! has not lived to witness its 
completion — the praise or censure of others is 
now, therefore, of little import to me. The trifles 
it contains were mostly written in that happy, 
thoughtless season of life when, as the noble 
Nivernois beautifully and truly remarks, — 

Reflexion et Jeunesse 



Ne s'unissent pas aisement. 

L'on sent a cet age charmant 

Certain besoin oVaimer qui presse ; 

Von est ami, Von est amant, 

Bien moins par choix que par ivresse ; 

Le ccenr rent un attachement, 

Et s'abandonne a la tendresse 

Sans savoir pourquoi ni comment* 

It will not, consequently, be wondered at, that 
the major part of them owe their birth more to 

* Fables jiar M. le Due de Nivernois, Livre 1. Fable 18. 



fanciful feeling than any other source : some 
there are, however, that sprung, but too sin- 
cerely from sad reality ; whilst others are merely 
imitations of various passages that afforded me 
pleasure during the progress of a very desultory 
course of reading. I have found amusement in 
noting down the various coincidences with my 
Poems, which I have discovered in other writers, 
and in pointing out to whom I have been in- 
debted for my ideas. Whether the reader will be 
alike gratified in the perusal remains to be de- 
cided. I commit them to the world without 
solicitude ; the only aim I had in publishing 
them I cannot now accomplish — and to every 
other disappointment I am proof. 



5, Union Place, Lambeth. 
June, 1829. 



<£tmtettt0* 



PACK 

Dedicatory Lines 1 

Supplicatory Ode to the Owl 5 

Introductory Stanzas 7 

Madrigal, "My Harp, which oft so fondly rings" 10 

Contradictions of Love II 

Lines from the French of Moncrif 13 

Song, " As flowers that seem the light to shun'' 14 

Anecdote Versified 16 

Beauty's Immortality 17 

Questions 19 

Serment d'Amour 20 

Love's Hatred 21 

Madrigal, " Oft on a Summer's eve" 22 

Stanzas, paraphrased from Chaulieu 23 

Song, from the German of Schiller 24 

Epigram, on leaving Brighton 26 

Passion's Wishes 27 

To " Thy cheek beauty's blush still discloses" 29 

Song, to a Young Lady singing 30 

Madrigal, to Maia 31 

Rhapsody 33 

Lines, on leaving an obscure retirement 35 

Lines, written on the Sands of Hastings 37 

Song, Sappho to her Mother. 36 



VI CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Fancies 41 

Ballad, " With frolic children of the earth" 42 

Round for Music 43 

Stanzas, " Last night 1 stray'd through rose-wreath'd bowers" 44 

Madrigal, " Oh, Stream ! on whose fair breast the sunbeams play" 46 

Stanzas, " Let fools with disappointment groan'' 47 

Sonnet, " Like some sweet portrait" 49 

Love's Blindness 50 

Beauty and Scorn 51 

Lines from Alcaeus 52 

Beauty's Idea 53 

Stanzas, " 'Twas at the gentle silvery fall of da>' - 54 

Theme and Variation 56 

Lines to Saccharissa with a Sugar Vase.. 57 

Song, "The Moon is down" 58 

Anacreontic, " Bring hither, Boy'' 59 

Stanzas, " Reproach me not, beloved Shade'' 60 

The Dearest Name 6a 

Maying 63 

Serenade, "The daylight has long been sunk'' 65 

Consolations of Sorrow 67 

Capriccio, " Her black eyes mourn" 69 

Love's Creed 7 

Notturno, " Tis now the dead of night" 73 

Lines, " I saw thee die, and yet I liv'd" 75 

Love's Follies 76 

A modest Ode to Fortune 77 

Hopeless Love 79 

Sonnet, " Winter though all thy hours'' 80 

The Joy of Weeping 61 

Multiplication 82 

A Lament, " Fair Flower ! Fair Flower 1" 83 

Stanzas, Looking at a Picture 



CONTENTS. Vll 

PAGE 

Reflection, " Oh where have fled" 87 

Evening 89 

The First of May 91 

Sonnet, " For very want of thought" 93 

Day and Night 95 

Valentine's Day 97 

Love's Mutability 99 

Single Gursedness 101 

Nature's Lesson 104 

Cherries , . 1 05 

Anacreontic 110 

Sonnet from Petrarch, " Alone and pensive" Ill 

Is it Love 1 112 

Simplicity 113 

The Hour of Bliss... 116 

Lines, " When last we quarrell'd, Love, I swore" 118 

Ballad, Eleanor Grey 120 

Sonnet Stanzas, "I love to hear the high winds'' 122 

Love's Emancipation 124 

Lines, " Give me the Lyre my Gracia held so dear" 125 

Pity's Pearl 127 

Ode, " Nature's Supremacy" , 131 

Ballad, "The Pilgrim Prince" 134 

Stanzas, Paraphrased from Plato 136 

Love and Beauty 138 

Sonnet Stanzas, " Wakener of thoughts'' , , 140 

Lines, " When first with yours my heart took wing" 142 

Ballad, " Directions to the Page" 144 

Concetto, " It's passion my timid heart smothers'* 146 

Woman's First Love 147 

Four Ages of Woman 148 

Platonical Sonnet 149 

Lines, " Love aim'd his arrows at my heart" 150 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Ballad, The Plain Gold Ring 151 

Ode on being present at a Young Ladies' Ball 153 

Sonnet Stanzas „ The Eternal Voice" 160 

Echo's Reply 162 

Sonnet written after reading Petrarch 164 

Despondency 166 

The Spaniard to his Country 169 

To the Memory of Mary Anne Moncrieff 171 

Resignation 173 

Valedictory Sonnet from Petrarch 176 



DEDICATORY LINES 



M A M 



In morning dream, by summer stream, 

Before my soul knew care or duty, 
On the pure tablet of my heart 

I drew the form that I thought beauty. 

There did I trace my line of grace, 
My every thing I deem'd enchanting, 

And many a chill of youth that form 

DispelPd, young Hope's sweet sunshine granting. 

Still, day and night, with fond delight, 
I woo'd this shade of fancy's forming, 

And long, a pilgrim, rov'd to find 

The shrine of charms but half as charming:. 



2 



But vain my cares, unheard my prayers, — 
And reason long had deem'd them folly ; 

For, though I rarest idols found, 

They were not those which I thought holy ! 

Though maidens bright shed round their light, 
My fancy still their beauty tainteJ ; 

I own'd them fair, but ever sigh'd, 

" They're not the fair my thoughts have painted." 

At length there beam'd a form, I deem'd 
The form so long belov'd in seeming ; 

With every charm as bright and worm, 
Yet lovelier than my loveliest dreaming ! 

There shone the eyes that woke my sighs, 
Yet sparkling with a radiance lighter : 

There were the cheeks so long T sought, 
Yet glowing with a crimson brighter. 

There rose the bosom's orb}* swell, 
The silken robe's restraint disdaining. 

There waved the tress of loveliness, 
Reason and prudence both enchaining. 



That form, which shone, my fancy's own, 
Was thine, thou dearest work of heaven ! 

Then, surely, thou wert born for me, 
Or why such prescience of thee given? 

And, be the world's rude censures hurl'd, 
I shall not, dear, the less admire thee ! 

For, oh ! thou'rt all in all to me, 

Thou'rt all that passion can desire thee. 

There may be fair, more bright and rare, 
To me they'll be less rare and bright, dear ! 

Thou'rt earth's and heaven's best to me ! 
Thou'rt all that constitutes delight, dear ! 



ril not maintain thy beauty's chain, 

Nor praise thy charms before another's; 

To me thou'rt all I've ever wish'd ! 
I care not what thou art to others. 

And every vow I've made ere now, 

Each song I've breath'd to fancied beauty, 

Find their true owner here in thee, 
And pay the tribute, love, of duty. 
b2 



Take then these rhymes of other times, 
Long since to thee in fancy offered, 

But now, in blest reality, 

With double fervour fondly proffered ! 

And deem each praise, of these rude lays, 

Thine own — by heaven, through me, directed, 

Thou concentration of each charm ! 

And be they by thy smile protected. 



.>«4<3-- 



All ever thus each mortal hope declines, 
Thus do our dearest, brightest wishes fade ! 

A brief space since,! penn'd, with joy, these lines, 
And now, I but address them to a shade ! 



- -H Ef? * 



SUPPLICATORY ODE, 
TO THE OWL. 



Sage bird of darkness, Critic Owl ! 

Why should'st thou, from thy leafy cowl, 

In yon deep shades, dart, mighty Sir, 

To crush the Poet Grasshopper — 

A dwarfish, trifling-, thoughtless elf, 

Significant but to himself; 

Who, — his brief song of summer o'er, — 

Perchance had troubled thee no more ? 

Why tear him from his sport away, 

And make the tuneful wretch thy prey ? 

Alas ! stern reason thou canst give — 

" The fool must die, that I may live" 

'Tis even so — still victims we 

To rigorous necessity. 

Sad elf! in song he woos each flower, 

x^nd you, too, carol in your bower — 

Albeit in a graver tone, — 

A note between a hoot and groan. 



His lay is breath'd in life and light ; 

Yours in deep secrecy and night : 

Yet both attune the voice aloud, 

And gain attention from the crowd : 

Both vocal are, and when did we 

E'er, of one trade, find two agree ? 

Thus he must perish, hapless one ! 

His lay is sung, his day is done. 

Poor insect ! all his mirth is o'er ; 

He now must madrigal no more. 

His songs have roused thee on the prowl ; 

I see thee coming, Critic Owl ! — 

I see thee from thy haunt advance, 

With griping claw, and hungry glance ! 

I see thee dart upon thy prey, 

And bear him to the shades away. 

Oh ! mighty Owl ! forbear, forbear ! 

One vagrant should another spare.* 

* This Ode is a very free paraphrase of an Epigram of 
Evenus, in the Greek Anthology, Apa Kooa /ueAt^eTrre, KaXov 
aQira^aTa, &c. forming EIlirPAM. iy. of Brunck's Collection. 
1 have taken the liberty to give the whole subject a turn 
not to be found in the original. 



INTRODUCTORY STANZAS. 



Who has not heard of Memnon's Harp* of yore ? 

Which, ever as the blushing morning broke, 
And golden sun-beams play'd its light chords o'er, 

From silence into wild sweet strains awoke ; — 

* This celebrated Lyre was fixed in the hand of the colos- 
sal statue of Memnon. erected at Thebes, in ancient Egypt. 
See Strabo, Geog. lib. xvii. Pausanias, in Attic. Lucian, 
in his Philopseudes and Toxaris. Also Philostratus ; this 
latter Author in his de Vita Apollon. Tyan. has the following 
passage :— " Soice? yap 6 ijkios o'oye? -nrkrJKTpov, Kara to arofxa 
efiirlvruv rep Mepvovi, e/cjcaAe<r0ai (txtivqv kKtiBev'"' In his Icon, 
and in his Heroics, he particularises the sound still more mi- 
nutely, " t]kir €iSr)d.Kr7va -wpaiT-qv 6 i]\ios ip.§a.WT] Tsap" 1 -f\s to 
dyaA/xa <puvrjv \pr\yvvuiv." 1 The fable of its magical properties, 
not the least known of the Classical Thaumaturgi of the olden 
time, is so beautiful, that none can wonder at most of our 
celebrated Poets having noticed it. I had imagined my mode 
of treating it to be entirely original, till I stumbled, par 
hazard, on the following passage in the Malade Imaginahe of 
Moliere:— " Mademoiselle," says Diaforcs, "ni plus, ni 
mains que la statue de AJminon rtndoit un son hurmnnieux 
lorsqu'elle renoit d'etre eclair 6e des rayons du so'eil ; tout le 
meme me sens-je anime d-un doux transport u I' apparition du 
soleil de vosbeaulbs."-- Act n. Sc. 5. I have since discovered, 
Akenside has a beautiful passage in his " Pleasures of Imu° i- 
nation, b. l." similarly circumstanced, in point of resemblance. 



8 



Just such the spell-formed Harp I bear; — awhile 
Silent and frozen sleeps its every string, 

Yet, once awoke by Beauty's melting smile, 
How richly then each tender chord will ring ! 

And, when the last faint daylight tints were dying, 

The while o'er Memnon's Harp they trembling 
fell, 
In sad sweet strains its magic numbers sighing, 

Hymn'd out departing splendour's last fare- 
well ; — 
Just so my wayward Harp — it pensive sighs, 

Touch'd by the parting glance of Beauty's mien; 
Forth as she goes, in one sad strain it dies, 

And only wakes to life when she is seen. 

The Nightingale, sweet Poet of the Rose,* 

Sings only while the /lower he loves is blowing ; 

When summer suns her beauty's buds disclose, 
Then first his lay is heard, their fragrance wooing: 

* Of the Poetical connexion between the Nightingale and 
the Rose, much has been and may be written. Jamieson, in 
a Note to his Popular Ballads, &c Vol. U. p. 93. has some 
observations on this subject sufficiently pertinent to merit 



And thus my song, whose burthen still is Love, 
Beauty's warm presence can alone inspire ; 

Only her blushing charms its praise can move, 
And wake the notes of wonder and desire. 

And as his song forsakes the love-lorn bird, 

In that sad season when the flower decays, 
And, sympathetic, his last close is heard, 

When her last fading flush wounds his fond gaze; 
So ceases the fond song I breathe, whene'er 

Inspiring Beauty is no longer near me, 
Nor will it sound to soothe the pangs I bear, 

But flies with her who only else could cheer me ! 



quotation. " The name of the Nightingale," says he, " in 
the French, (rossignol.) Italian (rossignolt,) &c. is beauti- 
fully poetical ; it is Celtic, and is still preserved in the 
Scoto-Gaelic and Irish, Ros-an-ceol, the rose music ; the 
melody finely substituted for the melodist ; the former being 
often heard, whilst the latter is seldom seen. The Oriental 
fable of the Nightingale and the Rose is well known, and 
needs no other explanation than simply observing, that the 
queen of sylvan melodists, and the queen of flowers, come and 
go together ; and that Nightingales sing only while Roses 
blow." 



10 



MADRIGAL. 



My Harp, which oft so fondly rings 

From peep of day 

Till evening- grey, 
Is strung with twenty golden strings : 
There's a string for joy, and a string for woe; 
A string to bless the goblet's /low ; 
One rousing youth and the battle's rage; 
One blessing peace and the thoughtful sage ; 
Two which will only friendship own ; 

Three when soft pity 

Claims the ditty ; — 
But all the rest are Love's alone!* 

* See A\ acrf.ovs First Ode. Barnes's Edit. GeAu \eyei» 
A/pe;5as. ard the 16th in the arrangement of the same 
tditor. 5u /xty \eyus to &r]€r)s. Also Bion's 4th Id* 11. 



11 



THE CONTRADICTIONS OF LOVE. 



In Love what contradiction lies, 

Love's all made up of joy and sorrow; 

His April face, of smiles and sighs, 

Will laugh to-day and weep to-morrow. 

Though child, he has a giant's power; 

Though blind, his aim he misses never ; 
Though god, he'll die within an hour ; 

Though wing'd, he'll sometimes stay for ever. 

Yes, Love is all a contradiction ; 

Those who love best the worst agree; 
Love's a sad fact, a laughing fiction — 

For mark you how the rogue serves me : 

His fires within my bosom blaze, 
Yes, there incessantly they glow ; 

While, through my eyes, his fountain plays 
With as continual a flow. 



12 



But, ah ! no help to my desires 

In either flame or flood appears ; 
My tears refuse to quench Love's fires, 

His fires refuse to dry my tears. 

I burn and stream both in a breath ; 

And, oh! the dreadful aggravation. — 
Am doom'd to die a double death, 

At once by flood and conflagration. 

* For a further enumeration of the Contradictions of 
Love, the Reader may refer to Petrarch's Sonetto, 
" S'amor non e; che dunque e quel ch'i 'wnto?" and the 
Sonetto, " Pace non troco, e non ho da far guerra." The 
fourth and fifth Stanzas of my Poem will remind the Spanish 
Reader of the following lines in the " Duible Boiteux" of 
Le Sage : — 

'• Ardo y lloro sin sossiego ; 

Llorando y ardiendo tanto, 
Quo ni el llanto apaga el fuego, 
Ni el fuego consumo el llanto. "" 



13 



LINES 



FROM THE FRENCH OF MONCRIF 



Autrefois, un temple etoit," S,-c. 



There was, in ancient times, a fane, 
Where Passion's pilgrims often rov'd, 

And breath'd, to balm their bosom's pain, 
The witching name of her they lov'd. 

Ah ! were such shrine but standing now, 
How many a youth, with thoughts of flame, 

Would own the idol of his vow, 
By softly sighing Maia's name ! 



14 



SONG. 



As flowers, that seem the light to shun 

At evening's dusk and morning's haze, 
Expand beneath the noon-tide sun, 

And bloom to beauty in his rays, — 
So maidens, in a lover's eyes, 

A thousand times more lovely grow, 
Yield added sweetness to his sighs, 

And with unwonted graces glow. 

As gems from light their brilliance gain, 

And brightest shine when shone upon, 
Nor hall their orient rays retain, 

When light wanes dim and day is gone : 
So Beauty beams, for one dear one ! 

Acquires fresh splendour in his sight, 
Her life — her light — her day — her sun — 

Her harbinger of all that's bright !* 

* " There is nothing new under the sun;'" Solomon was 
right 1 had written these lines from experiencing the truth 



15 



of them, and really imagined I had been the first to express, 
what so many must have felt ; but on looking over Rogers's 
delicious little volume of Poems, some time after this was 
penned, 1 find he has, with his usual felicity, noted the same 
effect. I give his Text and Commentary ; they occur in his 
beautiful Poem, ** Human Life :" speaking of a girl in love, 
he says 

" soon her looks the rapturous truth avow, 

Lovely before, oh, say how lovely now!" 
on which he afterwards remarks : — 

" Is it not true that the young not only appear to be, but 
really are, most beautiful in the presence of those they love ? 
It calls forth all their beauty." 

Such a coincidence might almost induce me to exclaim 
with the plagiarising pedant of antiquity, " Pereant <{ui 
ante nos nostra dixeruvl /" 



16 



ANECDOTE VERSIFIED. 



Lord Albemarle to Mademoiselle Gaucher, on seeing her 
look very earnestly at the. Evening Star. 



Oh ! do not gaze upon that star, 

That distant star, so earnestly, 
If thou would'st not my pleasure mar, — 

For, ah ! I cannot give it thee.* 

And, such is my unbounded love, 

Thou should'st not gaze upon a thing 

I would not make thee mistress of, 
And prove in love, at least, a King ! 

* Lord Albemarle, when advanced in years, was the lover 
and protector of Mademoiselle Gaucher. Her name of in- 
fancy, and that by which she was more endeared to her ad- 
mirer, was Lolotte. One evening, as they were walking to- 
gether, perceiving her eyes fixed on a star, he said to her, — 
" Do not look at it so earnestly, my dear, I cannot gice it 
you !" — Never, says Marmontel, did love express itself more 
delicately. 



17 



BEAUTY'S IMMORTALITY. 

TO 



And must the world lose all thy light? 

Thine, love, whose eyes e'en suns outshine, 
Whose virtue's brilliance beams more bright, 

Must thou like other fair decline ? 
Ah ! no, my faith spurns such controul, 

I'll ne'er believe the herd, who say 
The orient casket of thy soul, 

Like common forms, will fade away ! 

No, as while living here, love, we 

Beheld thee brightest of our sphere ; 
So, when thou'rt dead, there's nought of thee 
But will be something rich and dear. 
Jt Thine eyes, which mock the diamond's light, 
Still, as of wont, will diamonds be ! 
Thy breasts will turn to lilies white, 
With all the lily's purity ! 
c 



18 



From thy rich lips shall roses grow, 

Thy breath will give them fragrance rare ; 
Thy cheeks, that wear the ruby's glow, 

Will rubies be — and gold thy hair ! 
Thy limbs, the spotless ivory ! 

Bright pearls thy teeth — and, dearer far, 
Crystal thy heart — while we shall see 

Thy soul in some delicious star !* 

* The Reader will perceive at once, that this Song must 
have been suggested originally by Ariel's exquisite Lyric 
in the Tempest : — 

11 Full fathoms five thy father lies • 

Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes : 

Nothing of him that doth fade, 
But doth suffer a sea change 
Into something rich and strange," &c. 
I was not aware from what source I was obtaining my ideas, 
or I should never have had the temerity to have entered 
Shakspeare's ' charmed ring.* 



19 



QUESTIONS. 



Love ! who can hope thy power to fly, 

Or think to shun thy darts, 
When thy own wings the plumes supply, 

Which speed them to our hearts ? 

And who, when wounded, from his breast 

Thy shafts can ever tear, 
When beauty's piercing glances form 

The barbs that fix them there ? 



c 2 



20 



SERMENT D'AMOUR. 



Mai A, I swear, dear, by the turtle dove, 
That, fond and constant, knows no second love ; 
By those iix'd stars, that ne'er desert the heaven 
To which in night and gloom their light is given ; 
By the fond flower, which, till his course is run, 
Ne'er turns its gaze from off its god, the sun ; 
And by that sun, which still sleeps with the sea, 
I will be true to thee ! 

By the fond ivy, which, though storms overwhelm, 
Still faithful clings around its darling elm ; 
By those fierce tides, which still disdain all sway 
But the bright moon it joys them to obey ; 
By that sweet light, which still with morning glows; 
And by the fragrance which ne'er leaves the rose; 
15 v all things that in nature constant be, 
I w ill be true to thee ! 



21 



LOVE'S HATRED! 



TO 



I love you, yet hate you, alas 'tis too true; 

'Tis a paradox easy enough to explain : 
I love you, for so all that see you must do, 

And hate you, because you don't love me again.* 

* These lines are altered from trie Latin of Catullus, 
" De amove stio :" — 

Odi. et amo, quare id faciam fortasse requiris, 
Nescio : sed fieri sentio, et excrucior. 
Catullus in turn appears to have been imitated by Martial :~ 
Non amo te, Sabidi, nee possum dicere quare ; 
Hoc solum possum dicere, non amo te. 
Few readers will be displeased at my subjoining' the face- 
tious Tom Brown's celebrated and very pleasant Translation 
of this last Epigram : — 

I do not love thee, Doctor Fell, 
The reason why I cannot tell ; 
But this I know, and know full well, 
I do not love thee, Doctor Fell, 



22 



MADRIGAL. 



Oft on a Summer's eve, with vagrant feet, 

When the sun mildly glimmer'd through the trees, 
I've sought some lonely, cooling, calm retreat, 

To taste the freshness of the wandering breeze. 
There, on a bank with violets o'ergrown, 
My languid limbs in gladness I have thrown, 
And, tasting all the luxury of rest, 
Have mus'd on that my fancy lov'd the best ; 
Lull'd all the while by rills, that softly wept, 
And hum of rural sounds, till I have slept. 

Nor have I woke, till Philomel's sad tune 

Unlock'd each sense, when, starting, I have found 
Night's darkest clouds bedimming the pale moon, 

And shade and silence stealing all around. 
Then slowly have I sought my ancient tower, 
And, all enrapt, through midnight's lonely hour, 
Have giv'n my every thought to Heaven above, 
And its divinest work, my " Ladye Love." 






23 



STANZAS. 



! 



PARAPHRASED FROM THE FRENCH OF CHAULIEU 



Iris, ne croyez pas quune fiamme nouvellc," $t. 



Oh ! check the sigh thy joy that smothers, 
Think not that I can prove untrue ; 

Nor say, I you shall leave for others, 
As I have others left for you. 

No, loveliest, no ! for though the youth 
Who gains thy smiles may faithless be 

To others, who have claim'd his truth, 
He ne'er can faithless be to thee. 



24 



SONG. 



RAXSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.* 



The clouds gather fast, and the oak-forests roar, 
The maid to and fro walks along the green shore, 

* Translations of these wildly-pathetic lines have been 
published both by Coleridge and Lamb,— yet I cannot say I 
felt entirely satisfied with either, which has induced me to 
attempt another, more faithful, though, perhaps, less beauti- 
ful ; in fact, it is almost literal, as the German scholar will 
perceive, if he takes the trouble to consult the original, 
transcribed for that purpose : it occurs in that fine Drama, 
the Piccolomini, the second part of Schiller's noble Trilogy, 
IVullcnstein! and is sung by the heroine of the piece, 
accompanied by the Orchestra, in a manner wild and impres- 
sive beyond expression. The second line, " Das Mugdkin 
wandelt an's ujers g> iiw,*' reminds me so strongly of Homer"s 
celebrated passage, — " B77 S'cuciwv iraoa eu>a Tro\v<p\oia€oio 
SaAao-o-Tjs," that I cannot but think Schiller must have had it 
in his memory at the moment he was writing. 



25 



The big waves are breaking with might, with might, 
And sadly and lonely she sings to the night ; 

Her blue eyes discolour'd with weeping. 
" My heart's dead within me, the world is a void, 
" Which nought more can yield to be wish'd or 

enjoy'd : 
" Thou holy One, summon thy weary child home ! 
" I've liv'd and I've lov'd, now forsaken I roam, 

" And sigh for the grave's quiet sleeping !" 

Der eichwald brauset, die wolken ziehn. 
Das Magdleinwandelt an's ufers griin 
Es' bricht sich die welle mit macht, mil macht, 
Und sie singt hinaus in die finstre nacht, 

Das auge von wienen getriibet. 
Das herz ist gestorben, die welt ist leer, 
Und weiter giebt sie dem wunsche nichts mehr. 
Du heilige, rufe dein kind zuriick, 
Ich habe genossen das irdische gliick, 

Ich habe gelebt und geliebet. 



26 



EPIGRA M.* 



ON LEAVING BRIGHTON. 



Gay scenes, that best our monarch cheer. 

We'd never, never part, 
Were you not to my purse more dear 

Than even to my heart. 

* Paraphrased from the following, written on the window 
of an Inn at Chantilly : — 

" Beaux lieux, ou des plaisirs Conde fixa la source, 

A ne vous point quitter Ton feroit son bonheur. 
Si vous n'etiez a notre bourse 

Plus chers encore qu" a notre coeur." 



27 



PASSION'S WISHES. 



I wish I were the silver moon 
Upon my Maia beaming ! 

For then she'd delight 

To walk in my sight, 
Where the waters bright are streaming. 
All night I on her charms would gaze 

Through her window, while she was sleeping ; 

I'd scare with my light 

The ills of the night, 
'Till morn my love-watch keeping ! 

I wish I were the golden sun — 
All day I'd gaze upon her ; 

Her face so bright 

With rays of light 
I'd encircle, to glory and honour ! 



28 



Her bosom cold I then might warm, 
And my passion, she might return it ;- 

Or else, in the skies 

1 never would rise, 
That all the world might mourn it ! 



29 



TO 



Thy cheek beauty's blush still discloses, 
Yet harder no heart sure can be ! 

But since Iron is found hid in Roses,* 
What wonder I meet it in thee ? 

On my cheeks the Roses have faded, 
Sad proof that my love is sincere, 

And no Iron my heart has pervaded, 
But the barb which thy scorn has fix'd there ! 



* Dr. Clarke has satisfactorily proved the existence of 
Iron in the petals of Red Roses. 



30 

S O N G. 

TO A YOUNG LADY SINGING. 



Oh breathe again that melting lay, 
And when in foreign climes I stray, 
When years have circled o'er my head, 
And every joy of youth has fled, 
If chance its tones I hear again, 
'Twill sweetly banish future pain, 
By wakening with enchanting power 
The feelings of the present hour. 

Sweet, as I list, each tone will bring 
Some long-lost feeling on its wing ; 
Some pulse of youth by dull age still'd. 
Some thought of bliss that oft has thrilFd 
My heart with joy ! some note of love, 
Some inspiration from above, 
Delicious — soothing — softening — gay ! 
Then breathe again that melting lay ! 



31 



MADRIGAL, 
TO MAIA. 



The youth who sees thee may rejoice, 
And he is blest who hears thy voice, — 
But, oh ! what cause of smiles has he, 
Who, happy, gains a smile from thee ! 

Happy is ht? who thee admires, 
Happier, who sighs with soft desires ; 
But, oh ! more blest, more happy he, 
Who, sighing, gains a sigh from thee!* 

* The last four lines of this Madrigal are translated from 
the following, addressed by Guarini to a beautiful Lady : — 
Felice che vi mira, 
Ma piu felice che per voi sospira : 
Felicissimo poi, 
Che sospirando fa sospirar voi. 



32 



Guarini here has merely paraphrased an Epigram in the 
Greek Anthology, which appears to be an imitation of Sap- 
pho's celebrated Ode : 

" Qaiverai fxot ktjvos icros ®eo?(riv,'' 
So happily copied by Catullus : — 

" Ule mi par esse deo videtur." 
Also by Ausonius : - 

" Qui te videt beatus est, 
Beatior qui te audit ; 
Qui basiat semi-deus est ; 
Qui te potitur est deus." 
Among a crowd of more modern followers, the French satir- 
ist, Boileau, stands distinguished in his Ode : — 
. " Heureux qui pres de toi," &c. &c. 
But an Englishman feels a just pride in the superiority, uni- 
versally admitted, of Ambrose Phillips's exquisite version 
" Blest as the immortal gods is he, 
The youth who fondly sits by thee,'" ..Vi . 
over every other imitation of this noble relique of antiquity. 



33 



RHAPSODY. 



This is very Midsummer madness f* 

8HAKSPEARE. 



I love my Love to such excess, 
And prize her with such jealous care, 

That I could quarrel with the breeze, 
Which frolics with her golden hair. 

So great the madness of my heart, 
With such fierce passion do I glow, 

That oft I wish to rend the robe 
That dares to clasp her breast of snow. 

And when in noontide high she roves 
And meets the sun's enamoured blaze, 

I call for night to shroud the groves, 
That he may not so warmly gaze. 

D 



34 

So do I doat upon the fair, 
Such is my passion's ecstasy, 

That I could quarrel with the air, 

To which she breathes her balmy sigh. 

'Tis folly's dream ! yet I prefer 
Such dreams to dull reality ; 

I would be air, robe, all, to her !* 
She should be every thing to me ! 



* I am aware that every classical reader, upon the perusal 
of this line, will call to mind Anacreon's 

Y.yu 8' eaowrpov £if)v, 

Ottws aet gkrrrps /ue, &c. 
But where is the lover, worthy of the name, who has not, at 
some period, cherished a similarly romantic wish ? 









35 



LINES, 



ON LEAVING AN OBSCURE RETIREMENT. 



Unsightly chamber ! gloomy, narrow, bare, 

Dark guardian of my rest ; 
Ah ! though my hours, in thee, by moody care 

And anguish were oppress'd, 
Yet, now, that I'm about from thee to sever, 
I feel a pang to think it is— -for ever / 

For, oh ! there is no thing so lorn and rude, 

Taught or untaught, 
That hath been with us in our solitude 

And known our thought, 
But feeling hearts will find themselves o'ercast 
At taking the farewell they deem — the last/* 

* " There are few things," observes Dr. Johnson, in his 
Idler, " not purely evil, of which we can say, without some 
emotion of uneasiness,— this is the last. Those, who could 

D 2 



36 



never agree together, shed tears when mutual discontent has 
determined them to final separation j and of a place that has 
been frequently visited, though without pleasure, the last look 
is taken with heaviness of heart." To prove that these obser- 
vations of our great moralist are strictly correct, I may be al- 
lowed to observe, that I was not at all aware of their existence, 
when I wrote the Lines on which they form a commentary ; 
and which were really penned from genuine feelings, in the 
moment of separation described, and not from any view of 
laying down an axiom, or illustrating an emotion. 



3T 



LINES 



WRITTEN ON THE SANDS OF HASTINGS. 



As the sea-shell retains in its bosom 
The sighs of the waves where it play'd, 

Still breathing them, never to lose them, 
Till dark into ruin 'tis laid : 

So, deep in my bosom are lying 

The sighs, you, false maid ! breath 'd to me ; 
And there will they echo, undying, 

Till breathless that bosom shall be. 



38 

SONG. 
SAPPHO TO HER MOTHER. 



PARAPHRASED PROM THE FOLLOWING FRAGMENT OF 
SAPPHO PUBLISHED BY FULV1US LRSINUS. 

r\vK€ia nareg, trroi 
Avvafiai Trgeireiv rov irrrov, 
Tlod(f) Sa/xetcra wcuSos, 
Boafiivuv 5r A<pgo5irav.* 



Ah ! though my harp neglected stands, 
Which once so sweetly used to sound, 

The sport of Zephyr's wanton hands; 
And though my tresses are unbound ; 

* This very characteristic Fragment of the unfortunate 
Poetess, seems to have thrown all the Scholiasts into ecsta- 
sies. " We may suppose," says Dr> Joseph Warton, " the 
fair Author looking up earnestly on her mother, casting down 
the web on which she was employed, and suddenly exclaim- 



39 



Ah ! though I spend the night in sighs, 
And strive my tears from day to hide, 

Pride of my life — joy of my eyes— 
My dearest mother — do not chide ! 

For, oh ! in every thrilling vein 

A secret influence I own ; 
Young Love asserts his mighty reign, 

And claims me for himself alone, — 
Steals every thought, each sense pursues 

And all, which was so late my pride, 
Now, lost in love, unnotic'd sues, 

Yet, dearest mother, do not chide ! 



ing, ' Beloved mother, I can no longer weave the web, in- 
spired with love for some beauteous boy by the gentle 
Venus.' " By the bye, this is not a very adequate translation 
of the Doctor, the beautifully expressive Epithet ' BgaSivav 
A^oSacu',' being totally lost in it ; the following is more lite- 
ral, and does perhaps more justice to the original. " My sweet 
mother, I really cannot any longer turn the spindle, being 
subdued by my desire for a youth, through the sloth- 
creating Venus." 

Another Commentator asserts " that it would have afforded 
a worthy subject for Guido, the first, perhaps, among the Ital- 
ian painters, who alone could have transfused this inimitable 



40 



expression of deep affection, of languor, and voluptuous sen- 
timent, to the features and love-inspired form of the too- 
susceptible Greek." Natural and voluptuous ! a delineation 
of the personal feelings of the love-lorn Lesbian, it cannot 
fail to awaken our sympathy. In addition to which, it has, 
to the Greek Scholar, a simple, touching, unattainable 
pathos that defies translation. 



41 



FANCIES. 



Her kisses hang upon my lips, 

Like morning's dews upon the rose ; 

As soft, as sweet, as balmy too ; 

And, oh ! the lip that tastes such dew, 
Like dying love, immortal grows ! 

Her accents break upon mine ear, 

Like music o'er some stream at night ; 
I'm not on earth when she is near, 
Nor yet in heav'n ; but in some sphere, 
That is than either far more bright ! 



42 



BALLAD. 



With frolic children of the earth, 

Whose thoughtless hearts were light and glad. 
Whose voices woke no sound but mirth, 

The minstrel boy was mute and sad ! 
His heart was like his harp too much, — 

Unwaken'd, that would never wake ; 
And where the heart-strings none can touch, 

The heart will silent be, or break. 

But when the chosen few ones spoke 

To genius, taste, and feeling dear, 
Fast as each heart-strung chord they woke, 

Its soft response 'twas sweet to hear ! 
Were love, or war, or woe the theme, 

He pour'd so wild, so dear a strain, 
Lull'd them in so divine a dream, 

None ever wish'd to wake again ! 



43 



ROUND 



FOR MUSIC. 



Remember, love, the rosy flower 

I promis'd thee in early morn, 
Which, when we sought at evening hour, 

We found had fled, and left a thorn ! 

Ah let it, dearest, teach thee this, 
In pity to the youth who grieves, — 

The floweret is the joy we miss — 

The thorn, the sharp regret it leaves.* 

* This little Poem is of Greek origin. The first four lines 
are a close translation of an Epigram, to be found in the 

Anthologia, beginning : 

Tb gbdov. k. t. \. 



44 



STANZAS. 



Last night, I stray 'd through rose-wreath'd bowers, 

For, oh ! my soul was sad with love ; 
And to the Zephyrs and the flowers 

I sigh'd, their sympathy to move : 
" Ah ! tell me, gentle gales," said I, 

•' How I my lovely maid may bind ?" 
" Bind her with flowers," they murmur'd by ; 

" So sweet a chain she will not mind !" 






Some flowers I pluck'd ; "Sweet flowers!" said I, 

" What with my fair will you avail ?" 
" Oh ! let us here till morning lie, 

And o'er the maid we may prevail." 
Morn came ; I stray'd where they were lying, 

And sigh'd, my lovely flowers to see; 
For, some with cold neglect were dying, 

Whilst others could not livelier be ! 






45 



Oh ! emblems of my love and me, 

You shall this morn my story tell ; 
The flowers that bloom, my fair shall be, — 

The wither'd, he who loves so well ! 
And, when she sees your bloom all going, 

She, then, for me may shed the tear, 
That I did, when I saw them blowing, 

And was reminded of my dear ! 



46 



MADRIGAL. 



Oh, Stream ! on whose fair breast the sunbeams 

play, 
If o'er thy banks my gentle love should stray, 
Keep thou her image on thy bosom clear, 
To bless my eyes when next I wander near 

And thou, too, Echo, when she passes by, 
If she should gladly sing or fondly sigh, 
Oh keep the sounds, and but repeat them, when 
I, her fond lover, cross thy haunts again. 






47 



STANZAS. 



Let fools with disappointment groan, 

My bliss no mortal can defer, 
For it springs from myself alone ; 

Yes— yes, the very dream of her 
Is far more rapturous to me, 
Than any other's se^can be.* 

Lull then thy cares for me to rest, — 
Still let me slumber idly on ; 

I would not, if I could, be blest, — 

My happy dreams might then be gone • 
And, oh ! I would not risk to lose them, 
E'en for the heaven within her bosom : — 

* Nearly the same sentiment as this is expressed by Shen- 
stone in his exquisite and often quoted Inscription, at the 
Leasowes, to the memory of Miss Dolman : 

II Eheu ! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari, quam tui 
meminisse !" 



48 



For were she less than I have form'd, 
Though still she might an angel be 

To hearts, by love like mine unwarm'd, 
She'd less than woman be to me ; 

And, after dreams of heav'n, to wake 

To mortal dreams — my heart would break ! 



; 

• 






49 



SONNET. 



TO M. A. M. 



Like some sweet portrait of the olden time, 

(When painters pictured with a poet's eye, 
And woman, woo'd in her young beauty's prime, 

Wearing Romance's semblance gloriously, 
Mov'd forth, the chosen genius of the clime !) 

Mellowed, by lapse of years to that pale cast, 
That gentle fading morning of decay, — 

Thou lookest dear — a vision of the past ! 
Gliding like day-dream on thy placid way : — 

Scarce seems thy form of earth, so pure thy ra}' ! 
So calm, so meek, so pale thy look and mein ! 

So hallowed the chaste light around thee thrown, 
That, as we gaze, we cling unto the scene, 

To worship thee— ere thou'rt for ever flown ! 

E 



50 



LOVE'S BLINDNESS! 



Why weakly on her beauties dwell ? 

Numb'ring each source of false delight ; 
She boasts no charm, but there lurks harm, 

Did doting Love possess but sight ! 

Those locks, at which e'en age awakes, 
Around her brows so wanton flung, 

Ah ! what are they but curling snakes, 
That have my heart to madness stung. 

Those glances, kindling wild desires, 
Which from her eyes of azure play, 

What are they but the lightning's fires, 
That burn the gazer's peace away ! 



51 



BEAUTY AND SCORN. 



Amor pud assai, ma piu lo sdegno. 

Ital. Prov 



Oh, what a sun is o'er us glowing ! 

Oh, what a breeze is past us flying ! 
It cheers the flowers so sweetly blowing, 

Which else, by summer's suns, were dying. 
Nona, thy charms than suns are brighter ; 

And oh ! their brilliance death would give, 
But thy disdain breathes cooler, lighter 

Than southern breeze, and bids us live ! 

Thy beauty fills our hearts with love, 

Thy scorn inspires our soul with hate; 
And we should death by passion prove, 

But pride steps in and combats fate ! 
Our hearts by love and hate are torn, 

And like some bark, when winds annoy it, 
Between two waves it braves the storm, 

When singly either might destroy it. 
e2 



52 



LINES. 

IMITATED FROM THE GREEK OF ALC.EUS.* 



Ah, were I but the lyre, my fair. 

Thy tuneful fingers wander o'er ; — 
I might as well be such, for, oh ! 

You could not play upon me more. 

E'en, as you bid, I'm grave or gay, — 
I smile or sigh, feel woe or glee ; 

For you have stol'n my heart away, 
And now you are the heart of me. 

Or, would I were yon vase of gold, 
Which in the banquet still you sip ; 

Rich draughts my form would then enfold, 
And love and wine embathe my lip. 

* I have taken some liberties with the original of this 
trifle, which is merely a Fragment, and is by some, but I 
think incorrectly, attributed to Anacreon. 



53 



BEAUTY'S IDEA! 



" Oh, give me an idea /" said I 

To Maia, who was standing by : 

" Dull Bard !" said she, " not to perceive 

But one idea can Maia give !" — 

" Ah cease," I answer'd, " to reprove, 

I know, I feel it now, — 'tis Love !" 



54 



STANZAS. 



'Twas at the gentle, silvery fall of day, 

Stretch'd at my length, beneath a weeping willow, 
Oppress'd with heat and thought I slumbering lay, 

Lull'd by the ripplings of the stream's light 
billow. 
While there I slept, my vivid fancy form'd 

A vision fraught with misery and woe : — 
Oh may I aught by grief or pain deform'd 

Only on summer eves in slumber know ! 

Sighs rent my bosom, tears bedew'd my ej-es ; 

But soon I woke, and, to my joy, I knew 
There were no sighs but Evening's zeplr^r sighs ; 

No tears but rose and lily's tears of dew ! 
Oh then the rapturous joy that thrill'd my form, 

To find my grief, child of a drean^ hour, 
Was like the sunshine breaking on the storm. 

The rainbow rising o'er the sweeping shower 



55 



These visions of affliction, then, I thought, 

Are like the quarrels which fond lovers grieve ; 
For though they painful are, they are but short, 

And they no anguish'd sting behind them leave. 
Love is asleep when these light storms are break- 
ing, 

And though we anguish feel, the while they last, 
Yet, when he wakes, what joy brings that awak- 
ing, 

To think that all our sleeping woe is past. 



56 



THEME AND VARIATION. 



THEM E. 



Perche mai, se in pianto e in pene, 
Per me tutto si cangib, 
La memoria del mio bene 
Dal mio sen non trapassb ! 

VARIATION. 

When bliss, like morning's blush, shall stray, 
And eve but brings us sorrow's dew ; 

When all of joy has pass'd away, 
Ah ! why flies not its memory too ? 

But, oh ! the memory of past joy 

Still, still, within the heart will live, — 

That soothing balsam to destroy, 

Which, haply, other joys might give. 



57 



LINES 



TO SACCHARISSA, WITH A SUGAR VASE. 



Ah, would, thou humble shrine for sweets, 
Thou didst some soft nepenthe bear, 

To moderate our passion's heats, 
And sweeten every earthly care ! 

Or, would that in thy bosom I 

Could every sweet of life convey ; 

How swiftly then thy form should fly 
To her, who stole my heart away. 

But, simple, empty as thou art, 

Borne by my ceaseless sighs, take wing ; 
She'll plenteous sweets to thee impart, 

Who gives a sweet to every thing. 



58 



SONG. 



The moon is down, the wind is high, 

The rain is fastly flowing, 
But, ah ! the midnight hour is nigh, 

And I must needs be going ! 
For to my love I swore, by Jove ! 

That I this night would meet her; 
Then blow, ye winds, and flow, ye rains, 

You'll make me speed the fleeter. 

Love needs no light, for he is blind ! 

Thou, moon, need'st not arise ; 
And flow, thou rain, and blow, thou wind. 

Love's used to tears and sighs ! 
My fair is all in all to me, 

My world lies in her cheeks ! 
Oh moon, appear — the maid I see ! 

Be hush'd, ye winds — she speaks ! 



59 



ANACREONTIC. 



Bring hither, boy, yon Tuscan wine, 
And round our brows we'll roses twine ; 
Roses we have pluck'd to day, 
And we will drink till they decay. 

Yes, fill the vase, boy, fill it high, 
For see the light forsakes the sky : 
To ocean hastes the fainting beam, 
And we must seek it in the stream. 

Then let us, with the goblet's light, 
Illumine all the hours of night ; 
Drown every thought of care and pain, 
And drink till daylight dawns again ! 



60 



STANZAS 



TO THE SHADE OF 



In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep 
sleep falleth on men, — an image was before mine eyes ; 
there was silence, and I heard a voice — 

Job iv. 13. 



Reproach me not, beloved shade ! 

Nor think thy memory less I prize ; 
The smiles, that o'er my features play'd, 

But hid my pangs from vulgar eyes. 
I acted like the worldling boy, 

With heart to every feeling vain : 
I smiFd with all, yet felt no joy ; 

I wept with all, yet felt no pain. 



61 



No — though, to veil my thoughts of gloom, 

I seem'd to twine Joy's rosy wreath, 
'Twas but as flowerets o'er a tomb, 

Which only hide the woe beneath. 
I lose no portion of my woes, 

Although my tears in secret flow ; 
More green and fresh the verdure grows, 

Where the cold streams run hid below. 



62 



THE DEAREST NAME 



TO 



I've call'd you, in my lays, each tender name 
My love could fancy, or your beauties claim ! 
I've call'd you idol — angel — darling-r-dear ! 
And each fond name you sweetly smil'd to hear ; 
There wants but this to make you more divine, 
That you would only let me call you — mine /* 



* These Lines bear some resemblance to an Epigram by 
Lessing. Coleridge has, I believe, paraphrased the same 
idea ! 



63 



MAYING. 



TO MAIA. 



Now is the merry month of May ; 
And birds on every tree are telling 
The pleasures of their leafy dwelling, 

Singing many a roundelay ! 

Hark ! how the jocund rebecs sound ; — 
Oh merry, merry month of May, — 
Thy sward invites the limbs to lye, 

And hear the pleasant bells ring round. 

Now trips the morris to and fro, 

The while Dan Robin strains his throat, 
And drowns the cuckoo's warning note ; 

Come let us all a maying go ! 



64 



How fresh the flowers, how bright, how gay ! 
The sprites, who have the garden's care, 
Have left their own sweet breathings there. 

To charm our lovely queen of May ! 

Gracia, our queen of May art thou ! 
And never yet was earthly queen, 
Or queen of Fays, more lovely seen, 

Or worthier of each summer vow ! 

And, oh ! if still you constant prove, 
Sweet meed for every tear and sigh, 
May soon will August prove, and I 

Reap the rich harvest of my love ! 



65 



SERENADE. 



The day-light has long been sunk under the billow, 

And Zephyr its absence is mourning in sighs ; 
Then Dora, my dearest, arise from your pillow, 
And make the night day with the sun of your 

eyes. 
That, fairer than you, no one ever may prove, 
The bright mould that form'd you, they've broken,* 

my love ; 
And now, you alone can your image renew, 
Then, oh ! for creation's sake, rise, dearest, do ! 

* The reader may probably accuse me of plagiarism from 
Byron's noble Monody on Sheridan. I allude to the admired 
lines which close that Poem : — 

" Nature form'd but one such man, 

And broke the die— in moulding Sheridan." 
Such, however, is not the case ; this trifle was written at the 
F 



66 



Pretty star of my soul ! heaven's stars all outshin- 
ing ; 
Sweet dream of my slumbers ! ah, love, pray 
you, rise ; 

Enchantress! all hearts in your fetters entwining, — 
To my ears you are music, and light to my eyes ! 

To my anguish you're balm, to my pleasures you're 
bliss, 

To my touch you are joy ; there's the world in 
your kiss : 

Day is not day if your presence I miss ; 

Ah, no ! 'tis a night cold and moonless as this ! 

request of a musical friend, some months previous to the ap- 
pearance of the Monody. If there is any robbery. Byron is 
equally a thief with myself, more than two centuries since, 
Ariosto, speaking of one of the departed worthies of his 
time, remarks :— 

" Natura lo fece, et poine ruppa la stampa."' 

and if my memory was not so treacherous as it is, I could 
show that Ariosto did but say that, which had been, more than 
once, as well said before him, by those great originals of all 
good things the old Greeks; by-the-bye the same idea may 
be found in Burks as well as Byro\. 



67 



CONSOLATIONS OF SORROW. 



TO THE SHADE OF 



I miss thee most, my love, at that lone hour, 
When the last sun-rays leave our summer bower, 
And day and night, day's orient progress run, 
Are softly — sweetly — blending into one ! 
When the bright western star begins to rise, 
Lighting the dark blue depths of cloudless skies, 
That calm, that silent hour, the first of eve, 
Dearest to those who only live to grieve ! 

Then plung'd in memories of refin'd, sweet sorrow, 
E'en from my very grief, a joy I borrow ; 
A joy that almost makes my heart rejoice, — 
For, in deep solitude, there wakes a voice, 
A still small voice, the mourner's heart that cheers, 
Caught from the rill that trickles on in tears, 

F2 



68 



The wandering breeze that softly murmurs by, 
And to the sufferer seems soft pity's sigh ! 
The listening silence, and the soothing calm, 
Still to complaining hearts their sweetest balm, 
And all the nameless sympathies that rise 
From nature's scenes, the woods — the plains — the 

skies ! 
And then, love, to my lonely couch I turn, 
Where, while with thousand thoughts of thee I burn, 
I woo the dream that gives thee back again, 
And in that dear delusion lose my pain ! 



69 



C A P R I C C I O. 



ON 



Her black eyes mourn her treachery, 
Her cheeks blush deep with shame, 

Her coral lips pout angrily, 
Forc'd words of guile to frame. 

Her locks disdain the ringlet's chain, 
No more they'll hearts ensnare, 

At liberty ! they cry " be free, 
Our ties but bring despair !" 

At her deceit her bosom swells, 
Her breath still strays in sighs, 

Her every beauty now rebels, 
Her charms in judgment rise ! 



70 



LOVE'S CREED. 



When, love, thy charms I see, 
Can I a sceptic be ? 

Ah ! no, conviction in a glance is given ; 
For in thy form and face 
A hand divine I trace, 

Laugh at the powers of chance and own a 
Heaven ! 

Though atoms, idly hurl'd, 
Might frame this mighty world ; 

Though seas and plains from chaos might have 
birth, 
Yet, oh ! what chance could give 
A form like thine to live ? 

What chaos yield thy judgment, wit, and worth? 

What chance could give thy cheek 
That hue so rich and sleek, 

And fix that radiant brilliance in thine eve ? 



T! 



What chaos could bestow 
Those locks of golden flow, 

And breathe that witching fragrance in thy sigh ? 

Own the proud sceptic must ! 
No chance-rais'd dance of dust, 

A face, a figure, so divine, could frame ! 
'Tis writ in each fair line, 
Only a hand divine 

Could to that perfect image give the flame ! 

Thine eyes, which shine so bright, 
Are lit with Heaven's own light ; 

An angel's aspiration is thy breath ! 
Thy reason, ever right, 
Keen wit and judgment bright 

Immortal are, and mock the dart of death ! 

I seek not musty schools, 
But scorn the pedant's rules, 

I am not vers'd in theologic lore ! 
That there's a God, I know, 
To whom I ever owe 

My duty — love ! — I wish not to know more ! 



72 



A simple creed I own, 
I hold but this alone — 

That Heaven, for some wise purpose, urconfess'd , 
Form'd every creature rare, 
That fills earth, ocean, air, 

And that it through its works is worshipp'd best. 

Then still I'll kneel to thee, 
My heart's lov'd deity, 

Nor shalt thou, dear, my orisons reprove ; 
Through thee, I worship Heaven ! 
Through thee, my faith is given ! 

Then to adore thee is religion, Love ! 



73 



NOTTURNO. 



Cantus querulae tibiae. 

Hor. od. 7. b. iii. 



5 Tis now the dead of night, my love ; 
From thy chamber-bower alight, my love ; 

I've a ladder of ropes, 

And a world of hopes — 
Then quickly let's take flight, my love. 

Here we in danger are, my dear, 
But we'll fly from it far, my dear ; 

Then into my arms, 

With thy thousand charms, 
Descend like a falling star, my dear. 



74 



Oh, what are wealth and birth, my love, 
To honesty and worth, my love ? 

From thy father's tower, 

To thy true lover's bower, 
Is stepping to heaven from earth, my love. 

The moon is shining bright, my dear ; 
Our flying steps to light, my dear ; 

Beaming, the while, 

An approving smile, 
On this our true-love flight, my dear. 



75 



LINES 



TO 



I saw thee die, and yet I liv'd ! 

But what were thy worst pangs to mine ? 
Bliss, love ! for though dull sense surviv'd, 

I died a thousand deaths in thine. 

And though I breathe and gaze and stray, 
My joy, my rest, my peace, have fled ; 

My mental life has pass'd away ; 

My hope, my heart, my soul, are dead ! 

Existence, motion, still are mine ; 

But they to senseless things are given, — 
All, dear, that renders man divine, 

Thought, feeling, are with thee in heaven, 



76 



LOVE'S FOLLIES. 



When, lull'd in passion's dream, my senses slept, 
How did I act ? — e'en as a wayward child ! 

I smil'd with pleasure when 1 should have wept ! 
And wept with sorrow when I should have smil'd ! 

When Gracia, beautiful but faithless fair, 

Who long in passion's bonds my heart had kept, 

First with false blushes pitied my despair, 

I smil'd with pleasure ! — should I not have wept ? 

And when, to gratify some wealthier wight, 
She left to grief the heart she had beguil'd ; 

That heart grew sick and, saddening at the sight, 
I wept with sorrow ! — should I not have smiCd? 



77 



A MODEST ODE TO FORTUNE. 



Et genus et formam regina pecunia donat." 

Hor. 



goddess Fortune, hear my prayer, 
And make a bard for once thy care ! 

1 do not ask, in houses splendid, 
To be by liveried slaves attended ; 
I ask not for estates, nor land, 
Nor host of vassals at command ; 

I ask not for a handsome wife — 
Though I dislike a single life; 
I ask not friends, nor fame, nor power, 
Nor courtly rank, nor leisure's hour ; 
I ask not books, nor wine, nor plate, 
Nor yet acquaintance with the great ; 
Nor dance, nor song, nor mirth, nor jest, 
Nor treasures of the east or west ; 



78 

I ask not beauty, wit, nor ease, 
Nor qualities more blest than these — 
Learning nor genius, skill nor art, 
Nor valour for the hero's part ; 
These, though I much desire to have, 
I do not, dearest goddess, crave : — 
I modestly for money call — 
For money will procure them all!* 



* Compare with this the following passage in Boileau's 
eighth satire : — 

Quiconque est riche, est tout ; sans sagesse il est sage j 

II a sans rien savoir la science en partage ; 

II a Pesprit, le coeur: le me rite, le sang ; 

La vertu, la valeur,la dignite. le rang ; 

II est aime des grands, il est cheri des belles : 

Jamais Surintendant ne trouva decruelles. 



79 



HOPELESS LOVE. 



TO 



If hopeless love thou e'er hadst known, 

If e'er its pangs were thine, 
Oh, in the memory of thine own, 

Thou'dst feel and pity mine. 

But never, never may'st thou prove 

How wretched is their fate, 
Who sigh for those they may not love, 

Yet feel they cannot hate. 

* These Lines, with a slight alteration, have been adapted 
to Caraffa's beautiful Air " Fra lante Angoscie." 



80 



SONNET. 



Winter, though all thy hours are drear and chill, 

Yet hast thou one that welcome is to me ; 
Ah ! 'tis when day-light fades, and noises still, 

And we afar can faintly darkness see ;* 
When, as it seems too soon to shut out day 
And thought with the intrusive taper's ray, 
We trim the fire, the half-read book resign, 
And in our easy chairs at ease recline ; 
Gaze on the deepening sky, in thoughtful fit, 
Clinging to light as loth to part with it : 
Then, half asleep, life seems to us a dream, 
And magic all the antic shapes that gleam 
Upon the walls, by the fire's flickerings made ; 
And oft we start, surpris'd but not dismay'd. 
Ah ! when life fades and death's dark hour draws 

near, 
May we as timely muse and be as void of fear ! 

* " Darkness visible.'* Milton. 



81 



THE JOY OF WEEPING, 



A smile may brighten the tear-drop still, 

That from Beauty's dear eye strays ; 
As sun-beams lighten the trickling rill, 

That weeps through the forest maze. 
Joy brightens all the tears of love 

O'er virgin cheeks that steal ! 
When passion weeps, it is to prove 

What words cannot reveal ! 

Aurora weeps in tears of dew, 

As day leads on the hours, 
But sweetly smiles, the while, to view 

Her tears refresh the flowers ! 
Thus, when our tears for others flow, 

We smile through them, to see 
Despair still robb'd of half its woe 

By generous sympathy ! 

G 



82 



MULTIPLICATION. 



< One kiss my love, and then' — I sigh'd — 
She granted it, my grief to smother, 

* One more, and then' — again I cried — 

" And then, — what then ?" — * Then, love, an- 
other /* 

For though, as Sages, dear, disclose, 
E'en manna's self will cloying prove, 

" Increase of appetite but grows 

On what it feeds," when it is Love !' 

* Vide Basium III. of Joannes Secundus, "Da mihi sua- 
violum,'" &c. And Basium VI I. of (he same Author. "Centum 
basia centies, &c.'' Also Catullus. Carm. VII " Quaoris quot 
mihi basiationes/' &c. ; and Martial, Epig. 34. lib. vi. 



83 



A LAMENT. 



The Flowers of the Forest are a wede away ! 



Fair flower ! fair flower ! 
Though thou seem'st so proudly growing, 
Though thou seem'st so sweetly blowing, 
With all Heaven's smiles upon thee, 
The blight has fallen on thee, 
Every hope of life o'erthrowing, 
Fair flower ! fair flower ! 

Dear flower ! dear flower ! 
Vainly we our sighs breathe o'er thee, 
No fond breath can e'er restore thee ; 
Vainly our tears are falling, 
Thou'rt past the dews' recalling ; 
We shall live but to deplore thee, 
Dear flower ! dear flower ! 
g2 



84 



Poor flower ! poor flower ! 
No aid now to health can win thee ; 
The fatal canker is within thee, 

Turning thy young heart's gladness 
To mourning and to madness ! 
Soon will the cold tomb enshrine thee, 
Poor flower ! poor flower ! 

Wan flower ! wan flower ! 
Oh ! how sad to see thee lying, 
Meekly— calmly — thus, though dying ; 
Sweeter, in thy decaying, 
Than all behind thee staying ! — 
But vain, alas ! is now our sighing, 
Lost flower ! lost flower ! 



85 
STANZAS 

TO MAIA, LOOKING AT A PICTURE. 



See, what a lovely picture's here ! 

Ting'd with rapture's brightest hue, 
A Lover, sitting by his dear;- — 

Just, my Love, like me and you. 
What magic had the painter's hand, 

For, while we gaze, we scent* the flowers, 
And almost feel the Zephyrs bland, 

That seem to cool those trellis'd bowers. 

Look at the youth ! Love's in his eye, 
His slender form beams ripe for bliss ; 

He seems to whisper " No one's nigh,- 

Then grant, dear maid, the promis'd kiss !" 

* Philostratus, speaking of a Picture, has a similar idea 
" eiraivw nou rov evdporrov twv (joZmv kcu 
<^)T7/x( ytyficKpGai avru ixtra ttjs 007x775/' 



86 



Look at that maid, what burning blushes 
Are mantling on her rich young cheek ; 

See from her eye what brilliance gushes, 
Ah! more than worlds of words they speak. 

See his fond arm how gently twining 

Around her soft retiring waist ; 
And see his lip, how blandly joining 

Her melting cheek, so warmly chaste. 
Ah ! as it glows in colours warm, 

It is a picture fair to see ; 
But we a sweeter one could form, 

One, dearest, in reality! 



87 



REFLECTIONS. 



Oh ! where have fled the moments blest,* 

That pass'd so swift away ; 
When day still brought us night's sweet rest, 

And night was bright as day ? 
Sweet hours of youth and joy, 

That know no second birth ; 
Alas ! you ever fly, 

Ere scarce we've learn'd your worth. 

And where has fled the power to move, 

That Nona once possess'd ; 
That warm'd each icy heart to love, 

And fir'd each frigid breast ? 



* Dove sono i bei momenti 
Di dolcezza e di piacer ! 

Nozze di Fig auo. 



88 

Where, too, those graces, fraught 
With all that hearts could sway ; 

Which woke each tender thought, 
And stole our souls away ?* 

Ah ! with her youth, Experience sighs, 

Has Nona's beauty flown, 
For still with youth 'tis beauty flies ; 

Years ne'er depart alone. 
In spring our wisdom sleeps ; 

In winter wakes to truth ; 
And long the greybeard weeps 

The folly of the youth. 



* Quo fugit Venus ? lieu ! quove color ? decens 
Quo motus ? quid habes illius, illius 
Quae spirabat amores, 
Quae me surpuerat mini ? <S.c. 

IIor. 






89 



EVENING. 



A SKETCH FROM NATURE. 



Ut pictura poesis erit. 

Hon. 



'Tis now the young decline of day ; 
The light is lingering in the sky, 
Fading unconsciously away, 

Like brightness in a maiden's eye 
That fain would sleep, 
But watch must keep. 

Now shadows stenl o'er hill and plain 
Just, as in life's decline, we find 
Reflection steal across the mind, 

That sunshine will not aye remain 



90 



The village windows gleam like gold, 
Most bright and beauteous to behold, 

Reflected in the lake below ; 
Mocking, with their sheeny glare, 
The lights that soon will twinkle there; 

One, two, three ! a glorious show ; 

And, now, they like a thousand glow ! 

How Fancy works ! — they seem to me 

Like to some illumination, 

Given by a mighty nation, 
On their hero's victory, 

Their prince's birth-day celebration, 
Or a saintly jubilee ! 
It is a sight I joy to see, 
It chimes well with* my simple mood, 
To think that rustic nature should 
(Cheering her chosen sons) impart 
Sights that outvie the powers of art ! 



91 



THE FIRST OF MAY. 



I sought her cot, at peep of day, 
And tapp'd, till Echo tapp'd again ; 

It was the merry first of May, 
And thus I breath'd a lover's strain : 

Maia, my life, my soul, arise, 

And shame the Heavens with those eyes ! 

Rise, love, the light has banish'd night, 
A world of sweets 
Thy coming greets, 

Bright cynosure of summer skies, 

Maia,my life, my soul, arise ! 

Rise, love, it is the first of May, 

Most blest of days throughout the year ! 
I saw and lov'd thee on that day, 

But make it still more bless 'd, my dear ; 



92 



Like morning, with thy thousand charms, 
Oh ! rise and glad thy lover's arms ! 

The casement gleam'd, 

In sight she beam'd, 

And softly sigh'd 

She'd be my bride ; 
To church, in haste, we hied away,* 
And she was mine the first of May ! 



This Song is altered from a very pretty French Triolet 

Le premier jour du mois de Mai. 

Fut le plus heureux de ma vie ; 
Le beau dessein que je formai, 
Le premier jour du mois de Mai, 
Je vous vis, et je vous aimai. 

Si ce dessein vousplut, Silvie, 
Le premier jour du mois de Mai 

Fut le plus heureux de ma vie ! 



93 



SONNET. 



(t If the power of volition be suspended, persons may 
dream while they are awake* Such is the case, when, in 
an evening, looking into the fire, we let slip the reins of the 
imagination, and yielding implicitly to external objects, a 
succession of splendid or terrific imagery is produced by 
the embers in the grate ' — Buchan. 

" Oh for a Muse of Fire F 

Shakespeare. 



For very want of thought and occupation, 
Upon my fire, as broad and high it blaz'd, 
In idle and unweeting mood 1 gaz'd ; 
And, in that mass of bright and glowing things, 
Fancy, which in such moments readiest springs, 

Soon found materials for imagination : 



94 



Within the fire, all listless as I maz'd, 

There saw I trees and towers and hills and plains, 

Faces with warm smiles glowing flocks and swains, 

And antic shapes of laughable creation ! 
And thus the poet's soul of fire contains 
A store of all things bright and glorious — rais'd 

By Fancy, that deft artisan, to shape 

Into fair scenes and forms, that nature's best may 
ape. 






95 



DAY AND NIGHT. 



Nona has charms of splendid light, 

Like orient suns her full eyes beam, 
And, just as golden, long, and bright, 

Like sun-rays, do her ringlets stream : 
But, ah ! so glowing, so o'erpowering, 

Proud Nona pours her beauty's blaze, 
That, in shades, at distance cowering, 

Hearts adore, yet fear to gaze — 
And, like the sun, though bright her ray, 
She only cheers our hearts by day ! 

Gracia ! kind girl, more mildly beams, 

Like the moon's smiles are her bland looks, 

When from a cloudless sky it gleams, 
And throws its light o'er summer-brooks. 



96 



And, oh ! so chastening are the rays 
She yields alike to friend and foe, 

They sanctify the burning gaze 

Which longing eyes too often throw. 

And, like the moon, as kindly bright, 

Sweet Gracia cheers our hearts by night ! 






97 



VALENTINE'S DAY. 



' To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,' 
And, soon as morn shall shine, 

My dearest, shall I at thy window sigh, 
To be thy Valentine ! 

And if thou'lt at thy window stand 

Thy Valentine to see, 
The proudest he within the land 

Less proud than I shall be. 

Then should the sun shine out or no, 

I care not, — let him rove; 
All will be sunshine here below, 

If I but see my love. 

H 



The brightest queen T should pass by, 

For after thee, my fair, 
I could not satisfy mine eye 

With any one less rare. 

My hopes are fix'd on thee alone, 

And happier I should be 
Than kings, could I but reign upon 

The throne of love with thee ! 









99 



LOVE'S MUTABILITY! 



The first blest time I saw my love, 4 

'Twas on. an April day ; 
Ah ! that she like that day should prove, 

And shine but to betray. 

In morn it was she cheer'd my sight, 
With smiles that fled too soon ; — 

They promis'd to endure till night, 
But vanish'd ere the noon. 

Now all is dark, Love's night has come, 
And brings death's lasting sleep ; 

My rest lies in the silent tomb, 
And she for me may weep 

* See Petrarch's Sonetto, w Era '1 giorno i ch' al sol sco- 
lorara," &c. written on first seeing Laura. 
II 2 



100 

For this the doom that waits Love's slave, 
His hopes are still o'erthrown ; 

And only — only in the grave, 
Can certain rest be known ! 

Some cloud the fairest day deforms, 
Some blight mars pleasure's flowers ; 

Our look'd for sunshine turns to storms, 
The brightest sky has showers ! 

And " all who've journied life's sad round," 

With me will, sighing, say, 
In love no equal bliss is found ; 

'Tis but an April day ! 



101 



SINGLE CURSEDNESS! 



If, as an ancient Sage* declares, 
Our souls all fall from Heaven in pairs, 
Which, though dividing in their course, 
Will still, impell'd by secret force, 
Towards each other wing their flight, 
Till they in bonds of love unite, — 
Ah ! tell me, all ye powers divine, 
Where is the soul that should be mine ? 
Why do we thus asunder live, 
And lose the bliss that each might give ? 
Ah ! how much longer must I sigh 
For peace, love only can supply ? 

* I forget the name of this worthy ; his dictum is how- 
ever extant, and written in very choice Greek. 



102 

I sicken thus to live alone, 
In single misery to groan ; 
My days are dulness, vacancy, 
The morning brings no light to me — 
Noon no employ — the night no rest ! 
Nor joy, nor hope, dwell in my breast ! 
Ah ! guide me, all ye powers above, 
Guide me to her I'm born to love ! 
E'en though her coldness doom'd to meet, 
To languish ages at her feet : 
For, oh ! methinks scorn, pain, despair, 
Were better than this void to bear ; 
This loathsome stagnancy of feeling, 
Over the heart like torpor stealing. 
Oh ! tell me where she may be found, 
And I will journey earth's wide round, 
To pour my vows, and woo her smile ; 
Counting as pleasure every toil ! — 
Ah ! once to see her, once to know 
My soul lit up with passion's glow, 
Oh, it would drive far, far astray, 
The rust that eats my heart away, 



103 

The vapours dank would then depart, 
That now o'ercloud and dull my heart. 
I then once more within my soul 
Should own the feelings' sweet controul. 
Once more should thrill with that sweet joy, 
That best can lassitude destroy ; 
For, ah ! 'tis love alone can give 
That which makes life a bliss to live. 



104 



NATURE'S LESSON. 



TO 



The purple-hued Clematis, dear, 
Dies, if no fond support be near ; 
Just so it is with you and me, 
Through Love and Nature's sympathy 
You the support, the tendril I, — 
And, oh ! I must entwine, or die ! 









• 



105 

CHERRIES. 

a lover's narrative. 



Suggested by the following Passage in Rousseau : — 

" Apres le dine nous fimes une economic; an lieu de 
prendre le cafe qui nous restoit du dejeune, nous le gar- 
dames pour legoute avec de la crime et des gateaux qu elles 
avoient apportes ; et pour tcnir notre appetit en haleine, 
nous alldmes dans le verger achever notre dessert avec des 
cerises. Jc montai sur Varbre et je leur enjetois des bou- 
quets dont elles tne rendoient les noyaux a trovers les 
branches. Une fuis Mademoiselle Galley, avuncant son 
iablier et reculant la the, se presentoit si Men, ct je visai 
si juste, que je luijis tomber un bouquet dans le sein; et de 
rire. Je me disois en moi mime : Que mes levres ne sont 
elles des cerises ! comme je les leur jet terois ainsi de bon 
cceur H Les Confessions de Rousseau, Partie I. Livre 4. 

Fled had lazy, languid noon, 

When forth we stole from forest bowers, 

My maid and I — 
Where with shade, and song, and tune, 
The sullen, breathless, heated hours, 

Pass'd sweetly by. 



106 

On our way, I softly said, 

" Let us to mine orchard go — 

Thou know'st 'tis nigh ; 
There every summer fruit, sweet maid, 
Like fruits of knowledge, tempting grow, 

To mouth and eye." 

" Do'st think me, then, another Eve?" 
In undecided mood she said, 

'Twixt smile and sigh ; 
" Would'st thou, like him of old, deceive, 
To eat the fruit forbid to maid ?" 

Confus'd stood I ! 

At length, with many a true-love vow, — 
The which she chid, but joy'd to hear, — 

Did I reply ; 
And to mine orchard haste we now, 
With steps, that shake with hope and fear 

Delightfully. 

There, up a cherry tree I spring : 
With heart as ligfit as heart can be. 
The maid stands bv ; 



107 

I move as if each limb were wing, 
And, oh ! entranced creature, she, 
How great her joy ! 

Then to come underneath I ask 

The maid, and spread her lap of snow, 

While I would try — 
Oh sweet employ ! delightful task ! 
Into that snowy lap to throw 

The clusters high. 

She answers with the wish'd-for deed : 
I cherries pluck, one, two, and three ; 

Ad own they fly ; 
" See how like love-lorn hearts they bleed," 
She playfully cries out to me, 

" And blushing lie !" 

Her lap is white as new-fall'n snow, 
Or lamb — yet seat of whiter state 

Attracts mine eye ; 
Her bosom ! — there I dext'rous throw 
The cherries next, with courage great, 

Oh, ecstasy ! 



108 

She laugh'd ! — it caus'd me cry aloud, 
Without (for hope had made me proud) 

Or blush, or sigh, — 
" Oh ! that my lips but cherries were, 
How gladly would I throw them there, 

Entranc'd to lie !" 

She did not frown ; — that day is gone, 
And I since then have met her scorn ; 

'Lorn creature I ! 
Her heart, in thought, I have survey 'd, 
And this sad simile have made — 

I know not why : 

Like the red-hearted cherry, it 

Can blush, and bleed, and guile the wit 

That seeks to sip ; 
Can tempt the taste to try and win, 
While all, alas! is stone within, 

And mocks the lip.* 



* It may be necessary to state, that this Poetical Trifle 
was the Author's first exercise in the simple, story-telling 
school of the Lake Poets. He is not sure, at this moment, 



109 

whether his intentions, when writing this Poem, were 
seriously to imitate the exquisite simplicity and truth to 
nature so prevalent in his models, or playfully to mimic 
their puerility, colloquiality, and occasional inanity. This 
the reader will, perhaps, decide for him. 



...«^>|<g-«- 



110 



ANACREONTIC. 



Come fill the bowl ! — one summer's day, 

Some hearts, that had been wreck'd and severd, 
Again to tempt the liquid way, 

And join their former mates endeavour'd ; 
But then arose this serious question, 

Which best to kindred hearts would guide ? 
Water, was Prudence' pure suggestion, 

But that they thought too cold a tide ! 

Peace bade them try the milky way, 

But they were fearful 'twould becalm them ; 
Cried Love, on dews of morning stray, — 

They deem'd 'twould from their purpose charm 
them. 
Cried Friendship, try the ruby tide, — 

They did — each obstacle departs ; 
'Tis still with wine 'reft hearts will glide 

Most surely unto kindred hearts. 



Ill 

TRANSLATION OF PETRARCH's 28TH SONNET. 
" Solo e pensoso, i pin deserli campi." SfC. 



Alone, and pensive, through these desert shades, 
I pace the earth, with heavy steps and slow ; 
Avoiding watchfully, as forth I go, 
Each human haunt — intent, till daylight fades, 
To shun man's piercing gaze and question rude ; 
For, long of cheerful thoughts bereft by care, 
My love-lorn form betrays my mind's despair, 
And my heart's fires through my sad eyes protrude: 
While Fancy whispers, that the hills and plains, 
The streams and forests, know, though so con- 
ceal'd, 
The story of my life, its joys, and pains ; 

And in my walks no spot is e'er reveal'd, 
But there Love, straying, haunts me ceaselessly, 
Conversing — I with him, and he with me. 



112 



J S IT LOVE? 



To find my heart so heavy grown, 

That I could almost swear 
Young Cupid's dart was form'd of stone, 

And he had fix'd it there ; 
A pang, I dare not tell, to prove, 

And yet cannot conceal, — 
I do not know if this is Love, 

But this is what I feel ! 






A secret influence to bear, 

Makes me one form pursue, 
As if that form the loadstone were, 

And mine the needle true ; 
That pleasing malady to prove, 

Which best itself can heal, — 
I do not know if this is Love, 

But this is what I feel ! 






113 



SIMPLICITY. 



I wish'd to make my Love a gift of something soft 

and simple, 
For softness and simplicity lurk in her every 

dimple ;* 

* Thus Varro : 

" Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo, 
Vestigio demonstrant mollitudinem ; w 

quoted by Madame Dacier, in her edition of Anacreon, 1681, 
on a similar passage in that Author's celebrated Ode, A?€ , 
fyaypoupaiv apire. This simple trifle, which has appeared 
anonymously, has been singularly noticed and maltreated in 
the Literary World ; it has been curtailed of its fair propor- 
tions and transformed into a Song at the Surrey Theatre, by 
Mr. T. Dibdin. The Reverend Ralph Sharpe, in order to 
fit it for the ( Beauties of English Poetry,'' in his " Flowers 
of Rhetoric," 1819, p. 93, has, under the title of the * Be- 
nevolent Lover,' not very benevolently, deprived it of any 
I 



114 

And Cupid whisper'd me, that she would that the 

best prefer, 
Which did in worth and nature most assimilate with 

her. 

At first, I thought of violets a rustic couch I'd 

make her, 
Whereon to rest her ivory limbs, when sleep might 

overtake her ; 
But Love sung, ■ Foolish youth, beware ! for when 

on them she lies, 
The flowers will die with envying her azure veins 

and eyes.' 

Then glow-worms I resolv'd to catch, to light her 

in the night ; 
But Love exclaim'd, * They will not shine before 

her eyes so bright !' 

point it possessed, by his chastening improvements ; and 
lastly it has been fathered by a provincial pretender, and 
figured its little hour, under his name, in the ( Poet's Corner' 
of a Country Newspaper. 






115 

1 Well, then,' quoth I, « I'll lilies pluck, to ornament 
her vest ;' 

Cried Love, ' Her whiter bosom, youth, will orna- 
ment it best.' 

'A band of roses, then, I'll twine, to grace her fore- 
head fair ;' 

Said Love, ' No band can grace it like her band of 
golden hair.' 

* What shall I give her, then?' I sigh'd. Quoth 
Love, * You foolish elf,^ 

You can give the maid no gift so soft and simple 
as yourself P 



12 



116 



THE HOUR OF BLISS! 



I've banquets sought, but never yet 

Could soothe my bosom's care ; 
Riot at every one I met, 

But Pleasure was not there. 
No, Pleasure loves too well to roam. 

She heeds no one's behest ; 
Self-will'd, alas ! she'll only come 

An uninvited guest ! 

But, oh ! the joys that Pleasure brings, 

They precious are, and rare, 
As is the Oasis, that springs 

In Lybia's deserts bare. 
A fountain in a world of sands, 

A flower in barren plains, 
A kindly voice in savage lands, 

A balm where sickness reigns ! 






117 

And shall we then slight Pleasure's hours? 

Her transient joys defer? 
No ! when she visits life's dull bowers, 

Let's woo and welcome her. 
Life is too short, and woe too wide, 

To slight one hour of bliss ; 
And when, with Maia by my side, 

Was one more blest than this? 



118 



LINES.* 



When last we quarrell'd, Love, I swore, 
I would not for a year behold thee ; 

But, ah ! a day had scarce pass'd o'er, 
Ere once more did my arms enfold thee. 

* These Lines are slightly imitated from Paulus Silen- 
tiarius, vide " Anthologia," edit. Brunck, Strasburgh, 1773, 
epigram 24. This casuistical defence of amatory perjury has 
been frequently imitated by the French Poets, but I have 
never yet seen it cleverly handled by English Writers ; as Me- 
nander says, • Opyrj <pi\8vres o\iyos layyui xpovos.'' The anger 
of those who love does not continue long, yet short as it is, 
passion is ingenious in its devices to abridge its briefest du- 
ration. Bland, to his translation of these lines of Paul, has 
subjoined a note, in which he remarks, that " the simple 
thought, of time being lengthened by the absence of Lovers, 
has never been so wellexpressed,because never in so few words, 
as by Theocritus, 'Oi Se iroOovvres tv 'rjfiaTi yTjpouTKov(riv.- > 
«Chiama,echi desia, in un giorno s'invecchia/ as Salvini 
has correctly interpreted it. 



119 

Yet charge me not with perjury, 
My oath religiously I kept, love ! 

That day was a whole year to me, 

So lingeringly the moments crept, love ! 



120 



ELEANOR GREY 



BALLAD. 



Oh ! long shall I think of the Miller's fair daughter, 

The flower of the valley, poor Eleanor Grey ; 
For though Sorrow's sure dart to the dark grave 
has brought her, 
Her virtues, in memory, ne'er can decay ! 
Like the glow-worm, which shines, the night's dark- 
ness illuming ; 
Like the breath of the rose, which, though sweet 

while 'tis blooming, 
Breathes sweeter when death is its beauty entomb- 
ing, 
Is the memory sweet of lost Eleanor Grey ! 



121 



If to love be a crime, and there's sin in believing, 
Then greatly a sinner was Eleanor Grey ; 

For Edwin was tender as well as deceiving, 

And swore to protect, when he meant to betray. 

And like the mild night-plant, when some rude foot 
bends it, 

Whose only reproach is the perfume it lends it, 

She sigh'd, " My heart blesses the false youth who 
rends it !" 
And died as she bless'd him, poor Eleanor Grey ! 



122 



SONNET STANZAS. 

Avefiwv trueotn-wv, ti)v rixw irpocrKvvsi. 

Pythagoras. 



Quumjuvat immites ventos uudire cubantem — 
Aut, gelidus hybernus aquas cum fudeiit Auster, 
Securem somnos, imbrejuvante, sequi ! 

TlBULLCS. 



I love to hear the high winds pipe aloud, 

When 'gainst the leafy nations up in arms; 
Now screaming in their rage, now shouting, proud; 

Then moaning, as in pain at war's alarms : 
Then softly sobbing to unquiet rest ; 

Then wildly, harshly, breaking forth again, 
As if in scorn at having been repress'd ; 

With marching sweep careering o'er the plain. 
And, oh ! I love to hear the gusty shower 

Against my humble casement pattering fast, 
While shakes the portal of my quiet bower ; 
For then I envy not the noble's tower. 






123 

Nor, while my cot thus braves the storm and blast, 
Wish I the tumult of the heavens past. 

Yet wherefore joy I in the loud uproar ? 

Does still life cloy, has peace no charms fbr me ? 
Pleases calm nook and ancient tome no more, 

But do I long for wild variety '? 
Ah ! no ; the noise of elements at jar, 

That bids the slumbers of the worldling close, 
Lone Nature's child, does not thy visions mar, — 

It does but soothe thee to more sure repose. 
I sigh not for variety nor power, 

My cot, like castled hall, can brave the storm ; 
Therefore I joy to list the sweepy shower 

And piping winds, at home, secure and warm ; 
While soft to heaven my orisons are sent 
In grateful thanks for its best boon, content !* 



* These Stanzas are, it will be perceived, but very little 
more than an amplification of the well-known lines of 
Lucretius : 

Suave mari magno turbantibus sequora ventis, 
E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem. 



124 



LOVE'S EMANCIPATION. 



False girl ! I'll wear thy chains no more, 

My heart shall be my own ; 
'Twas thy neglect left ope the door, — 

And now, the captive's flown ! 
Then give me, give me back the tears, 

That I have shed for thee ; 
They shall congeal to drops of ice, 

To show I'm cold to thee ! 

Once, it was bliss thy chains to wear, 

For flowerets hid them all ; 
But, since thy scorn has kill'd the flowers, 

The unwreath'd fetters gall ! 
Then give me, give me back the sighs, 

That I have breath'd for thee ; 
With them, I'll fan the flames of love 

In one more true and free. 



125 



LINES. 



Give me the lyre my Gracia held so dear, 
And let me wake the lay that, once, to hear 
She bent so tenderly, and lov'd so much ; 
Then place beside the harp she us'd to touch. 
And, while to mine in soft response it rings, 
I'll think that still again she sweeps its strings ; 
The dear deceit will cheat me of my pain, 
And, in a sound, I'll live o'er life again !* 

* Kotzebue in his Travels to Paris, vol. 3, p. 166, Eng- 
lish translation, 1804, gives us the following extract from his 
' pocket book.' "Of a girl romantically in love, I have noted 
an anecdote, which is said to have happened very recently, 
and which will touch the feelings of most of my readers as it 
did mine. 

" She was playing on the harpsichord, and her lover used 
often to accompany her on the harp. He died, and his harp 
had remained in her room. After the first access of despair, 



126 

she sunk into the deepest melancholy, and much time elapsed 
ere she could sit down to her instrument. At last she did so, 
gave some touches, and, hark! the harp, tuned alike, re- 
sounded in echo ! The good girl was at first seized with a 
secret shuddering, but soon felt a kind of soft melancholy. 
She thought that the spirit of her lover was softly sweeping 
the strings of the instrument. The harpsichord from this 
moment constituted her only pleasure, as it afforded her the 
joyful certainty that her lover was still hovering about her. 
One of those unfeeling men, who want to know and clear up 
every thing, once entered her apartment ; the girl instantly 
begged him to be quiet, for that very moment the dear harp 
spoke most distinctly — being informed of the amiable illu- 
sion which overcame her reason, he laughed, and with a 
great display of learning, proved to her, by experimental 
physics, that all this was very natural. From that instant 
the maiden grew melancholy, drooped, and died." This 
anecdote has furnished the groundwork of a romantic tale, 
by the patriotic and heroic poet Korner, entitled " The 
Harp." 



127 



PITY'S PEARL. 



The skies were dark, the wind was high, 
The foaming* ocean 
Was all in motion, 
And threw its billows to the sky, 

Alas ! Alas ! 
Too late the life-boat came to save ; 
The fishers met a watery grave, 
Before friends', kindred's, children's eyes, 
Their agony what could surpass ? 
They, shrieking, shrinking, 
Saw them sinking, 
Sinking, ah never more to rise ! 
Alas ! Alas ! 



128 

Gracia was walking on the shore, 
She heard them shrieking, 
Succour seeking, 
But, ah ! a tear was all her store ; 

Alas ! Alas ! 
And sadly did the maiden sigh, 
" Ah ! why no other pearl have I, 
Than that which Pity's eye now gives ; 

'When from their hearts will sorrow pass ? 
The bright tear fell where waves were sighing, 
Fell where a shell was aptly lying, 
The shell that virgin tear receives ; 
Alas! Alas! 

Shrin'd in the shell, that bright tear there 
By power, given 
From bounteous heaven, 
Became a pearl of value rare : 

Oh joy ! Oh joy ! 
The fishers' offspring, toiling, find 
The pearly tear for them design'd, 
A mighty sum they by it gain ; 



129 

It soon o'erthrew each dark annoy, 

And ere the morrow, 

Banish'd sorrow — 
Prov'd Gracia's tear fell not in vain, 
Oh joy! Oh joy!* 

* The origin of this Ballad is an Eastern Fable, I believe 
by Hafiz, which I find translated first in the Spectator, No. 
293, vol. 3. The elegant Mancini, Duke de Nivernois, has 
versified the original so gracefully, in his e Fables,' Livre 
Second, that I cannot forbear gratifying the French Reader 
by transcribing it : - 

LA GOUTTE d'EAU- 

Du haut de la voute des airs 

Une goutte d'eau detachee, 

Tombait dans 1'abime des mers ; 
Elle en etait sans doute bien touchee, 

Pour peu qu'elle eut de sentiment : 

Venir ainsi du firmament 
Pour se trouver confondue, egaree ; 

Rouler a jamais ignoree 
Parmi les flots de ce vaste element 
Dont notre terre est partout entouree, 
C'£toit un sort bien triste assurement 

Quoi qu'il en soit, les lois du mouvement 

Allant leur train, la goutte est attiree 
Du haut en bas, et touche a son dernier moment. 
K 



130 

Dans cet instant heureusement, 

Par un huitre elle est aspiree, 
La, comme en un fort retiree 
Elle regne a son aise, et profite si bien 

Qu'elle devient en moins de rien 

Perle d'une beaute - parfaite. 
Elle pare d'abord l'ecrin d'un curieux : 
Bientot d'une princesse elle orne la toilette, 

Et finit par briller sur les autels des dieux. 
Qui l'aurait dit, quand la pauvrette 
Tombait si tristement des cieux ? 



131 

ODE. 

NATU It E S S V P R E M ACY! 



Give me the wild note still, that springs 
When o'er the harp the minstrel flings 
His gifted hand, and tries his power 
In inspiration's mighty hour ! 
Awakening, from th' unconscious chords, 
Wild notes that mock the power of words ! 
In careless untaught circles winding, 
The soul's most hidden feelings finding, 
Before the lay of cunning art, 
Which charms the ear, but leaves the heart. 
Give me the stream meandering on, 
O'er many a bed of sedge and stone ; 
Here brawling loud — now whispering there, 
But still depriving us of care ; 
Before the dull, the staid canal 
That moves without a rise or fall. 
k2 



132 

And give me Maia, wild young thing, 

Whose heart is like the linnet's wing, 

Once caught and sooth'd with silken sway, 

She'd charm the live-long hours away ; 

So wild, so simple is the dear, 

She's heaven's own inmate wandered here. 

My young wild thing ! my young wild thing ! 

Thy heart is like the linnet's wing : 

But, ah ! once snar'd, my love, by me, 

So bless'd thy humble home should be, 

Thou ne'er shouldst sigh, love, to be free : 

Pure Nature how thou wak'st our sighs, 

Thou first best blessing of the skies! 

All that belongs, lov'd power, to thee. 

Is dear, heaven knows how dear, to me ! 

The flower, that in the desert blows, 

The grape, that glad in nature grows, 

Anacreonting all our fields, 

A charm, more cool, more blessed, yields, 

To longing eyes and burning lip, 

That faint to gaze and die to sip, 

Than can precocious fruit and flower, 

Rais'd by the hot-bed's ripening power ! 



133 

And Maia, wild untutor'd creature, 

With Nature's speech, and Nature's feature, 

Is dearer than the polish'd fair, 

That blooms in cultivated air. 

Her simple song of artless grace, 

Far more delights the heart to trace, 

Than all the scientific strains 

Of classic Arno's maids and swains. 

Her careless, playful, artless gait, 

Her step so light, yet so elate, 

More fascination has for me 

Than walk of solemn dignity ; 

Or all the dancer's artful mazes, 

Which but surprise the eye that gazes. 

Pure love from Nature still has birth ; 

Nature's from Heaven — Art springs from Earth ! 



134 



THE PILGRIM PRINCE. 



BALLAD. 



At blush of morn, the silver horn 

Was loudly blown at the castle gate ; 

And, from the wall, the Seneschal 
Saw there a weary pilgrim wait. 

" What news — what news, thou stranger bold ? 

Thy looks are rough, thy raiment old ! 

And little does Lady Isabel care 

To know how want and poverty fare." 
" Ah let me strait that Lady see, 
For far I come from the North Country !*' 

" And who art thou, bold wight, I trow. 
That would to Lady Isabel speak ?" 

" One who, long since shone as a prince, 
And kiss'd her damask cheek ! 



135 

But oh my trusty sword has fail'd, 

The cruel Paynim has prevail'd, 

My lands are lost, my friends are few, 

Trifles all, if my Lady's true !" 

" Poor Prince ! ah when did woman's truth, 
Outlive the loss of lands and youth !" 



136 



STANZAS. 



Paraphrased from the folloicing distich of the Pkilosoj>her 
Plato, in Laertius : — 

" Asepas ticradpeis, asrjp e/ios, eifle yevoifj.T)v 
Ovpavos, wj iroWois o/j.fxa<riv (is cr( §\(ttco." 



Oh ! Psyche, that I were yon sky ; 

For then, at blush of morning, 
My tears should all in dew drops fly, 

In sorrow at thy scorning ! 

Oh ! Psyche, that I were yon sky ; 

For then, at evening's gleaming. 
My every star should be an eye, 

Upon thy beauties beaming.* 

* Such luxuriant wishes as these have, in all ages, 
formed the favourite subjects of Poetry. Longpierre and 



137 



Barnes, in their Annotations on the 22nd Ode of Anacreon, 
w 'H Tard\ov ttot' €57?," the parent of most of these fanciful 
compositions, refer to several imitations of it ; of which an 
Epigram by Dionysius, the Sophist, extant in the Antholo- 
gia, beginning " Et0' aue/xos yevoifjaqv, crv Se ye seixava map'' 
oiryas," appears to be the best. Apuleius, however, has some 
pretty Verses in this style. Among the moderns, a French 
Bard, Monsieur de la Mothe Houdart, wantons, in my opinion, 
the most gracefully. 



138 



LOVE AND BEAUTY. 



In days of old, when Love was young, 

He pledg'd his duty, 

To charming Beauty ! 
With her he danc'd, to her he sung, 
And soon for their wedding the bells were rung ; 

She look'd so sweetly, 

Dress'd so neatly, 
She stole young Love's fond heart away, 

And Nymphs, with envy, their fair heads hung, 
At Beauty's looks, so bright and gay ! 

In joy they pass'd their honeymoon, 

When ah ! poor Beauty 

Forgot each duty. 
And it was seen with sorrow, soon 
That she a sloven had become ; 



139 

No more a lover, 

The wide world over, 
Love wing'd his flight from his young bride's arms, 

In hopes to find, ah dearest boon ! 
His once-priz'd Beauty's former charms. 

Beauty, enrag'd that thus Love rov'd, 

Spoke words reviling ; 

He answered smiling, 
Alike by scorn and tears unmov'd, 
" You're not the Beauty once I lov'd ! 

You dress'd to gain me ; 

To retain me, 
You should have doubled each fond endeavour, 

Love cools as Beauty careless proves, 
And when Love flies, he flies for ever !" 



140 



SONNET STANZAS. 



On re-perusing, after a long interval, a hook that had 
been a favourite in Childhood. 



Wakener of thoughts in youth's sweet spring of 

life, 

Thou hast brought back that time when all was 
new, 

1 glance at once long years of turmoil through, 
And rest, where all with peace and flowers is rife. 

How, as this long-forsaken tome I view, 
Sinks into deepest shadow manhood's strife ; 

And all my childish joys at once renew ; 
As if each word was magic that I read, 
Of power to wake the past, and raise the dead ; 

Giving the spirit of lost joys so plain, 

My worn heart beats with youth's bold pulse 
again. 



141 



Oh volume, potent as that book of dread, 
Which, for his Ladye, he of Deloraine, 
From wizard Scott, bore with such toil and pain ! 

There may be tomes more deep, more rare, more 
good 

Than thou, companion of my childish days ; 
But thou'rt the first I lov'd and understood ! 

Thou art the first plung"d me in wonder's maze ! 
I cling to thee, as early lover should ; 

Thrill with those feelings thou wert first to raise; 

I stray with thee through all past pleasant ways ; 
Recall the converse we have had together, 
Reclin'd on grassy bank, in summer weather, 

Or b} f a winter fire, in antique chair ; 

And, like a lover gazing on his fair, 
I find new beauties out at each fresh gaze. 

Let Wisdom frown ; she'd try to yield, in vain, 

Such joy as from thy simple page I gain ! 



142 



LINES 



TO 



When first with yours my heart took wing, 
'Twas pure as Nature woke it ; 

You could have made it any thing, 
But cruelly you broke it ! 

You say, you'll give it back again ; 

Then give it as you found it, 
For who but she can soothe its pain, 

Who was the first to wound it? 

Those olden laws of purest truth, 

(Heav'n did to man impart,) 
Gave eye for eye, and tooth for tooth, 

And why not heart for heart ? 



143 

Give but your heart to me for mine. 
My pangs, my woes, were o'er ; 

Or, let it but with yours entwine, 
I ask, I wish no more ! 



144 

DIRECTIONS TO THE PAGE 
BALLAD. 

INVERTED FROM THE FRENCH. 



The wine-cup draught has lost its zest, 

Music's sweet spell hath left me ! 
My towers have lodg'd a treacherous guest, 

Who has of joy bereft me. 
Oh Page, intruders here may roam, 

Then take thy sad Lord's orders, 
Of all to whom I'll be at home, 

Who chance to cross our borders ! 

If Learning knocks, say I'm engag'd, 

But bid her call to-morrow ; 
If Revel ! that I'm much enrag'd ! 

For she but brings me sorrow. 



145 

To Friendship, hint I'd be alone ; 

That I'm unwell, tell Science; 
If Business calls, to town I've flown ! 

If War, bid him defiance ! 

But, ah ! if Love, false boy, should come, 

With no excuse deceive him! 
Though false, I cannot bid him roam, 

But must again receive him. 
Though he has robb'd my heart of rest, 

From Love I cannot sever ; 
He still will be a welcome guest, 

Will still be dear as ever ! 



146 



CONCETTO. 



TO 



Its passion my timid heart smothers, 
And deems not, devoted and true, 

The rapture of living for others 
So sweet as the dying for you ! 

Myself with the silent to number, 
And think that I died for thy sake, 

Were as sweet as to sink into slumber, 
With music that seraphims wake ! 






147 



WOMAN'S FIRST LOVE! 



Go, and in fetters seek to bind 

The ocean's restless waves ! 
Try with a word to hush the wind, 

When fierce the tempest raves ; 
Bid daylight from the skies depart ; 

Ah ! still the task will pastime prove, 
To his who seeks from woman's heart 

To root her first pure love ! 

Go, bid the grave its dead restore, 

Unstain'd by earthly woes ! 
Essay to wean, for evermore, 

Its fragrance from the rose ! 
Woo doves to play the vulture's part, 

Ah ! still the task will pastime prove, 
To his who seeks from woman's heart 

To root her first pure love ! 
l 2 



148 



THE FOUR AGES OF WOMAN. 



THE IDEA FROM THE FRENCH. 



In Infancy, a tender flower, 

Cultivate her ! 
A floating bark, in Girlhood's hour, 

Softly freight her ! 
When Woman grown, a fruitful vine, 

Tend and press her ! 
A sacred charge, in Life's decline, 

Shield and bless her !* 

I should not have given a place to this boyish trifle, but, 



that it has lately found its way into several respectable pub- 
lications, in a very imperfect state, totally without my 
agency. 



149 



PLATONICAL SONNET. 



How beautiful to worship woman's eyes 

As stars of heaven ! form'd, man's guiding light, 

But to be gaz'd on as celestial bright ; 
To deem them as the jewels of the skies ; 

The blue, day's sapphires ; — black, the gems of 
night : — 
To hold her words as music, deem her sighs 
As gales of balm, in cassia groves that rise ; — 
To think the blush that o'er her soft cheek flies 

The sun's warm set, the vesper's rosy flight ! — 
To feel one smile of her's, life's choicest prize : 

To deem her sacred, holy, angel quite ! 
Inspiring all that's pure and blest and wise ! 

The fountain of all chastity and might ; 

Ah ! is not this to worship woman right ? 



150 



LINES. 



Love aim'd his arrows at my heart, 
And round my eyes his bandage tied ; 

That I might blindly nurse his smart, 
Unmov'd by coquetry and pride. 

And, long, to gain false Maia's hand 
I sigh'd, her follies passing o'er ; 

Till, ah ! her scorn unbound Love's band, 
Then, then I saw, and lov'd no more ! 

Oh ! like those nether things of gloom, 
Which die when they behold the light, 

Give Love his eyes, you raise his tomb ! 
He's Love no more when he has sight. 



151 



THE PLAIN GOLD RING.* 



BALLAD. 



He was a Chief of low degree ! 

A Lady, high and fair, was she : 

She dropp'd a Ring — he rais'd the gem, 

'Twas rich as eastern diadem, — 

" Nay as your mistress' trophy take 

The toy, when next a lance you break." 

He to the Tourney rode awaj r , 

And bore off Glory's Wreath that day ! 

* I forget the name of the love-sick Peeress, from whose 
seasonable hint to a gallant young officer this Ballad was 
taken ; it is, however, a well-authenticated anecdote in the 
higher circles ! This trifle has attained some degree of po- 
pularity from my having united it to a movement in the 
late lamented Weber's beautiful Overture to the Freischuiz. 



152 

How did his ardent bosom beat, 

When, hastening to that Lady's feet, 

The Ring and Wreath he proudly laid ; 

" Oh keep the gaud," she softly said ; — 

" Nay, Ring so rich I may not wear, 

How e'er return a gift so rare ?" — * 

" Dear youth, a Plain Gold Ring," she sigh'd, 

" From you, were worth the world beside !" 






153 



ODE. 



On being present at a Young Ladies' Ball, in Leamington 
Spa, Warwickshire. 



Oh ! we may traverse earth's wide round, 
Before a sight more pure is found 

Than where (sweet balm for each alloy !) 
Youth, innocence and beauty, bound 

Through life's brief paths of joy ! 
I came, a pilgrim to the scene, 

My spirit vex'd, my vision tir'd 
With all the follies that have been, 

Which men deem joys ; — my soul desir'd 
A pleasure calmer, purer far, 
Than riot, from her headlong car, 
Bestows on those she seeks to cheer; 
I came, and oh ! I found it here I 
How redolent are childhood's joys 

With all that's dear and bright ; 



154 

Yielding a sweet that never cloys, 
A bliss, no after-thought destroys ! 

An exquisite delight ! 
The smile upon the cheek of youth 
Can only spring from joy and truth ; 
It is the sunny beam that plays 

Where waters smoothly flow, 
And, caught from heav'n, its cheering rays 

To-morrow may again bestow. 
Ah ! how unlike the worldling's smile, 
Which only gleams but to beguile, 

Hides pangs remorse may wake ; 
Like to those fatuus fires that gleam 
On the dank breast of stagnant stream, 

Or foul, mephitic lake. 
The sports of innocence and youth, 
Flash with the diamond force of truth ; 
We know their joy hath no alloy, 
No retrospection will destroy ; 
And, as that flower,* which still, at night, 
Sheds all around sweet sparks of light, 

* The Papaver Orientalis, or Eastern Poppy, said to 
diffuse electric sparks at night. 



155 

Which it has caught by day ; 
So they beam back youth's noon again, 
And light up every darker vein 

With pleasure's purest ray r 
We catch from innocence its rest, 

Inhale from youth its glee ; 
And feel that glow within the breast 

Which long had ceas'd to be ! 
But see the graceful group advance ! 

Breathing with mirth and love ; 
Prepar'd to weave the mazy dance, 

Harmoniously they move ! 
O'er every limb is music playing, 
They glide like sylphs o'er sether straying 
Or, like Diana's nymphs at sport, 
Or, fairies holding some high court ; — 

Now through arcaded arms they rove j 
The Nereides, from coral caves, 
That swim in moon-light o'er the waves r 

Lur'd by the Syren train, 
(Charming the Tritons gazing nigh,) 
Glide not more undulating by, 

Nor to a sweeter strain. 



156 

Streaming so softly, lightly on 

To sounds methinks that well had won 

Eurydice again. 
Now, form the elder nymphs a grove, 
Where younger beauty seems to move, 

Through smiles of light, on either side, 
The gladdening light of joyful eyes, 
For all will gain an equal prize, 

All feel an equal pride. 
And down that grove the younger band 
Trip on like elves in magic land, 

Whose footsteps only fall on flowers, 
Lifting them sweetly up again, 
Some fairer blossom's step to gain 

In those enchanting bowers. — 
Chasing each other, on they come, 
Then, all in mingled forms, they roam, 

A beautiful confusion ! 
Till like a rocket to the sight, 
They shoot into a star of light, 

A lucid sweet conclusion. 
How does that motion soothe and please 
Where all is melodv and ease ; 



157 

In Beauty's curve they move, they form, 
For, no sharp angle dares deform, 

No step abrupt appear. 
As soft they glide as rill through valley, 
Which though it joys in antic sally, 

Still lulling is and clear ; 
Nor want those nymphs each livelier step, 

Now in the frolic waltz they twine, 

Now in the gay quadrille they join, 
In giddy reel they trip. 
But hold ! enchanting every one, 
The stately minuet is begun ! 

The genius of the night advances. 
Oh ! dance of dignity and grace, 
Thou hast but ill resigned thy place 

To fashion's lighter dances ; 
Thy steps that sentiment impart, 
Thy movements, minuet of the heart,* 

* The Minuet du Coeur, commonly called the Minuet de 
la Cour, composed by the elegant and delicate Noverre. It 
was styled the Minuet of the Heart, from the peculiar ex- 
pression of sentiment so discernible both in the music and 
figure. 



158 

Thy elegant, thy courtly train, 

That brings us back old times again ; — 

Spreading its folds in graceful flow, 

Following the steps like hand-maid fair, 

And giving that commanding air 
Our days do not bestow. 
When didst thou e'er yield more delight 
Than by thy mastery to-night ? 
But who are these, the sister two,* 
Whom each perfection seems to woo ? 

How elegantly light they come, 
Sweet daughters of Terpsichore, 
The goddess' self they seem to be, 
And sport from them gains dignity, 

Taste finds a lasting home. 
Twin fav'rites of the Graces they, 
The muse of motion owns their sway, 

Upon their steps she waits ; 
Oh ! ever be their hearts as light 
And gay, as on this happy night ; 

Grant it ye guardian fates ! 

* Two young ladies, daughters of the mistresa of the cere- 
monies, on this occasion. 









159 

See, now they come like Gades' maids, 
And, oh ! like them in Cadiz' shades, 
Off, to the blythe bolero, set 
And click the sprightly castagnet. 
Now to the master's strain they give 
A form ! it moves ! it speaks ! alive ! 

It darts upon the eye and ear. 
Votaries of riot, fashion, come — 
See where pure taste has found a home, 

See joy's refinement here ! 
Sweet nymphs ! from whose delight to-night 
My soul in turn has caught delight, 

Accept this tribute-lay ; 
Still feel the bliss that you feel here, 
Still be its source as pure and clear, 

Thus does a Poet pray ! 
How swift this night of joy has past, 
How long in memory it will last ! 



leo 

THE ETERNAL VOICE! 

SONNET STANZAS. 



'O yes 6 XaXytruv ®cos. 

Menander. 



Deems there God holds no converse with the Earth 
He toiPd to form through six succeeding days ? 

But that he leaves it now as nothing worth, 
Or in high anger at its erring ways ? 

When, of old time, if true that scripture says, 

To commune with the worm that owes him birth, 
He sent his spirits forth, tempering their rays 
And speech to man's weak ear and feeble gaze, 

And made this world the fane of peace and mirth ; 
While rose of gratitude the humble lays, 
In thousand tones of thankfulness and praise : 

Ah ! that there should of faith be so great dearth ! 



161 

Man's folly wraps my senses in amaze, 
In vain to gloze his fault, my heart essays ! 

Although not palpable to sight and mind, 

The Eternal holds high converse with his slave ; 
Speaks he not to us in the rush of wind ? 

Speaks he not to us in the roar of wave ? 
Can we no voice in the loud thunder find ? — 

No aspiration high in echoing cave ? 
-In deepest silence is no voice enshrined, 
By which thoughts calm and holy are enjoined ? 

What stronger evidence shall mortals crave ? 
Oh man ! to reason deaf, perverse, and blind, 

How long will you such testimony brave ? 
Believe that still, omnipotent and kind, — 

As wont of old, you, heavenly warnings have, 

Through Nature's voice it is Heaven speaks 
to save ! 



162 
ECHO'S REPLY. 

BALLAD. 

WRITTEN TO A MELODY EY MOZART. 



/ came to the place of my birth, and I cried, " The friends 
of my Youth, where are they f" and an Echo answered, 
" Where are they T 

Arabic ms. 



To the scenes of my childhood, 

When years had departed, 
To my haunts in the wild-wood, 

With fondness I came ; 
But though hope smil'd before me, 

I felt hea\y- hear ted ; 
One sad thought came o'er me, 

Ah ! were they the same ? 
In many a sally, 

The brook flow'd unaltered, 



163 

The glen and the valley 

Still stood in their pride ; 
But " The Friends of my Youth, 

Ah ! where are they ?" I falter'd — 
" Where are they ? — where are they ?" 

An Echo replied ! 

Mute Nature still flourished 

In all her first beauty ; 
But the fond hearts that nourish'd 

My young hopes had flown ; 
The ties I had cherish'd, 

Of Friendship and duty, 
With them sadly perished, 

For ever were gone ! 
And, ere scarce pass'd over 

Youth's few years of sorrow, 
For me some lone rover 

In Friendship may sigh ; 
" Where is he ? the Bard 

Whose wild strains cheer' d each morrow !" 
" Where is he ? — where is he ?" 

Will Echo reply ! 

m 2 



164 



SONNET. 



WRITTEN AFTER PERUSING PETRARCH. 



And thus it was the warm Italian sung 
His sense of Beauty, in the olden time. 
As bright she mov'd along in that sweet clime, 
By skies of one unclouded blue o'erhung, 
Where nature seems just born, so pure, and young ; 
Fair Europe's garden, stamp'd with marks sublime 
Of all with which succeeding times have rung, 
Of classic grace and greatness ! Ah ! among 
Such glorious scenes, and in that witching tongue, 
That in the rudest mouth will turn to rhyme,* 



* It is by no means uncommon with the peasantry of 
Italy to answer any questions that may be put to them, on 



165 

What wonder that each Lover-Bard hath clung 
To woman, as a worship, and at prime 

Of morn hath beads of adoration strung, 

From mortal longings free — till latest Vespers 
chime ! 

the road, in rhyme. One of our modern tourists tells us, 
that enquiring his way to some town, he was answered, by a 
Lazzarone, 

" Al Monte 

Alia Fonte, 

Delia Citta 

Nellafronte." 



166 



DESPONDENC Y. 



Tlovas ixvpios eyewra/ATiv. 

EUR1FIDES. 



And canst thou wonder I am sad, 

That once was gayest of the gay ? 
And canst thou bid my heart be glad, 

When all of joy has pass'd away ? 
Wonder not, wonder not ! 
Despair must ever be my lot. 
I've suffered every mortal wrong, 

I've seen each hope I cherish'd cross'd, 
And mine must be a mournful song, 

For I am joyless, hopeless, lost ! 

Did not the dear lov'd one, for whom 
I yielded up my youth's best years, 

With slow decay sink to the tomb, 

And leave me but my sighs and tears ? 






167 

Fading fleet — fading fleet ! 
When she seem'd most pure and sweet ! 
I won her beauties but to see 

Them in the grave untimely fall, 
And feel, when all were envying me, 
That I the saddest was of all ! 

The friends, I valued most, betray'd ; 

And those my household nurtur'd, still 
With blackest perjury essay 'd 

To work me every human ill ! 
Faithless crew ! — Faithless crew ! 
But remorse will yield their due ! 
To every grateful feeling proof, 

They play'd the traitor's, slanderer's part, 
And, shelter'd 'neath my trusting roof, 

Fawn'd on my hand, and stabb'd my heart ! 

I've let my harp neglected lie, 

And slighted all the gifts Heaven gave, 
I've let my young ambition die, 

Nor wrought one deed my name to save. 
Wasted youth ! — Wasted youth ! 
Now too late I wake to truth ! 



168 

Then wonder not that I am sad, 
Nor consolation seek to give ; 

But bid me to my sorrow add, 
And rather marvel that I live ! 









169 
THE SPANIARD TO HIS COUNTRY. 

Written to an Original Spanish Melody. 



Though the Despot's fell legions awhile triumph 
o'er us, 
Yet droop not, my country, thou still shaltbe free ! 
Young Hope, like the sky, shines unbounded be 
fore us ; 
Every feeling hath join'd in devotion to thee. 
As the bright rays of morning chase night's gloomy 
shadows, 
Our spears o'er our mountains shall drive the 
dark slaves ; 
The day-star of Freedom shall rise o'er our meadows, 

And light us to glory or set on our graves ! 
By the faith of our fathers, the ties of relations, 
By the charms of our maidens, our rights we'll 
maintain ! 
Till as free we are left as the first of free nations, — 
Gaul ne'er shall taste Peace in the Olive of Spain ! 



170 

Though long in the ashes of patriots perish'd, 
The bright torch of freedom hath smouldering 
lain ! 
The flame hath but been the more carefully cherish'd, 
The brighter, the warmer, to burst forth again ! 
As our peasants still seize on the brand, while 'tis 
glowing, 
And bury it deep in the ashes at night, 
That, drawn forth at morning, each light zephyr 
blowing, 
May kindle the flame and awaken the light/ 
So, let but a breath, but a movement discover 
One hope, one fond wish, for that bright flame's 
return, 
No more in the tomb of dead ashes 'twill hover, 
No ! mark then how warmly, how brightly 'twill 
burn ! 

* " The peasants of Spain preserve their fires during the 
night by means of a piece of burning wood, (the French call 
it une buihe, we forget the Spanish word.) which they bury 
in the ashes till morning ; it is then still alight, and the want 
of external air has prevented the wood from consuming j 
they apply a match, and the lire is soon kindled again." 

'Times fieicspapcr. Friday . J r ui '// 4, 1S23. 



17 



Co t|>* Mtmovv of 

MARY ANNE MONCRIE1 F, 

Who died May 24, 1828, in her 22 nd Year. 



Sweet token ! Heaven design'd her not for earth ! 
She bore an angel's semblance from her birth ; 
A more than mortal grace, that charm'd all eyes ; 
A sweetness, that belong'd but to the skies ; 
Genius, that all perfection's pathways trod ; 
And virtue, emanation of her God ! 
Thus gifted, was no other blessing hers ? 
Yes, one Heaven on its chosen but confers : — 
That early suffering, which all sin denies, 
Which timely weans us from all worldly ties, 
Which in the gently fading look we trace, 
Yet which but yields its victim milder grace ; 
Sustain'd for lingering years, without complaint, 
Till the meek martj r r soar'd into the saint ! 



172 

Like some pale lily drooping in its prime, 

Some fleeting being of another clime, 

Some fair star waning in the morning's beam, 

Or faint remembrance of a witching dream, 

Was she ! — So lovely, e'en disease she charm'd, — 

The beauty it destroy'd it ne'er deform'd ! 

Death fear'd to strike, although he could not spare, 

A being both so fragile and so fair : 

He paus'd, till weariness had hush'd her sighs, 

Then, imperceptibly, secur'd his prize. 

Ah ! Mary Anne ! thou spring-day of delight! 

Lamp of my life ! now quench'd in death's dark 

night ! 
Could excellence but lend its own bright rays 
To light the lines, that fain would hymn its praise, 
Then would this humble scroll immortal prove 
As is thy worth — and as will be my love ! 



173 



RESIGNATION 



Yes, yes, I will take comfort, 

I will forbear to sigh, 
I'll check my sad tears, since I see 

A tear in every eye. 
Though hopelessly I languish, 

I do not mourn alone, 
In every heart there's anguish, 

As deep as in my own ! 

Still, in my love's young morning 

To suffer such a blight ; — 
Ere joy was scarcely dawning, 

To see it set in night ! 
All life's sweet hopes destroying, 

Could heavier woe be mine ? 
(Each bliss of earth enjoying !) 

Yet why should I repine ! 



174 

When Macedonia's Hero 

Saw death approaching near, 
He breath'd no idle murmur, 

He shed no fruitless tear ; 
" Farewell !" he sigh'd, " ye living, 

Youth's work must finish'd be, 
Ah ! that spring's plant should perish 

Like autumn's ripen'd tree." 

He wrote unto his mother, 

And these the words she read, — 
w Your son from earth must sever, 

And join the silent dead ; 
When o'er my urn you sorrow, 

Bestow alms but on those 
Who ne'er have lost their dearest. 

Who ne'er have known earth's woe3. 

The mother sought, but vainly, 
Though near and far she rov'd, 

All had endured earth's trials, 
All lost the friends they lov'd. 

It gave the consolation 
Her hero meant ; for she 



175 

Saw her's was but the portion 
Of all humanity.* 

Then, then I will take comfort — 

I'll balm my bosom's pain, 
I'll dry my tears, though never 

Can I know joy again. 
I'll breathe no fruitless murmur, 

Whatever pangs are mine ; 
Since misery's universal, 

Why, why should I repine ! 

* " When Alexander saw his death approaching, he ex- 
claimed, c The prediction of the Astrologer is accomplished ; 
I no longer belong to the living ! Alas ! that the work of my 
youth should be finished ! Alas ! that the plant of Spring 
should be cut down like the ripened tree of Autumn !' He 
wrote to his mother, saying, he should shortly quit this earth 
and pass to the regions of the dead. He requested that the 
alms given on his death should be bestowed on such as had 
never seen the miseries of this world, and had never lost 
those who were dear to them. In conformity to his will, his 
mother sought, but in vain, for such persons : all had tasted 
the woes and griefs of life; all had lost those whom they 
loved. She found in this a consolation, as her son had in- 
tended, for her great loss. She saw that her own was the 
common lot of humanity." 

Sir John Malcolm's u History qf Persia." 



176 
VALEDICTORY SONNET. 

FROM PETRARCH. 

Voi cKascolate in rime sparse il suono,"" SfC. 



Oh ! ye who listen to my wood-notes wild, 

And count in them the sighs that I have breath'd, 
When I, in passion's wilds, sad garlands wreath'd; 

Like my fierce master, Love — a very child ! 

With all the follies that n^ heart beguil'd, 
Follies by Heaven in punishment bequeath'd, 
If in your hearts love's arrows e'er weresheath'd, 

You then may pity me, from joy exil'd : 

For, on my cheek the blush of shame oft glows, 
And sad reflection tells me, but too plain, 

The vulgar herd still mock my passion's woes ! 
I reap m} r follies' meed, remorse and pain ; 

And feel too late the thorn hid in the rose, 

Finding man's praise a dream as transient as 'tis 
vain ! 

THE END. 

W. T. M. men., ti", T> p. S.iville House, Lambeth. 






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